


Louder Than Words

by CantSpeakFae



Series: Soulmate AUs [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, British Sign Language, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-verbal Randall, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Smut but not to a gratuitous level, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2019-07-16 15:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: In a world where everyone is born with their soulmate's first words to them marked on their arm, Rupert "Ripper" Giles is born with no words at all. Terrified at the prospect of growing up into a life without love, he becomes jaded and embittered, diving headfirst into loveless one-night stands and casual affairs.And then he meets Randall Evans. A non-verbal boy with a bright smile and even brighter eyes and his entire world is sent into a tailspin.





	1. Prologue: When Words Fail

“RONALD, YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD! I WILL  **NEVER** FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS!” 

Elizabeth Giles’ words carried and echoed through every room in the house, every wall in their home resonating with her anguish. But words alone could not do justice to the rage that she was feeling; and it wasn’t enough to  _ hear  _ her screeching without seeing the flush of red in her cheeks, the fire in the depths of her dark eyes, or the white-knuckled grip she had on her husband’s tie, pulling so hard that she threatened to cut off his oxygen altogether. It was enough to strike fear into the heart of any man…

And yet, Ronald only laughed and tilted his head forward to press his lips to his wife’s sweat-slick forehead.

“You’re doing beautifully, lovey.” He promised, his voice only  _ slightly  _ strangled by the grip she had on his tie. He pushed, gently, trying to force her to lie back down onto the bed as another contraction made her face screw up in agony.

He didn't like seeing her like this. But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this pain would be forgiven the moment she had their son in her arms. They just had to get to that point without any casualties.

The Midwife - someone employed by the Council, for occasions such as these - smiled to herself at Elizabeth’s raging but was back to a careful expression of professionalism by the time she settled back into her seat at the foot of the bed that Elizabeth was lying on.

“I need you to focus on me, Elizabeth. Breathe… and get ready to meet your son, because here he comes.”

 

* * *

 

Rupert Edmund Giles was born on a Wednesday evening, weighing five pounds and eight ounces, entering this world screaming at a pitch to rival his mother. The umbilical cord was cut, the afterbirth dealt with, and the baby whisked away to be cleaned up and examined.

After what felt like an eternity to Elizabeth, who was on the verge of passing out under the sheer weight of  _ exhaustion _ , he was finally brought back to her, wrapped in a soft yellow blanket, and pressed into her arms for the first time.

She cried, unabashedly, at her first glimpse of his perfect, little face. His hair, nothing more than a tuft of fuzz on top of his head, as dark as hers but his eyes the same blue-green as his father’s. He blinked up at her, his little face red and scrunched up with displeasure at his introduction to the world, but he didn’t cry anymore, seeming more content now that he was back with his mother than he had been when the midwife was looking him over with all those cold and strange tools.

Elizabeth held him tightly, turning to look at her husband and expecting to find him looking just as completely in love with him - their Rupert - as she was.

But, he wasn’t. He wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t even looking at her. He was standing off to the side, talking with the midwife. Whispering. She’d been so distracted by the presence of her son, finally in a position that wasn’t pressing painfully on her bladder, that she hadn’t realized her husband had been whisked off to the side.

But the second she  _ did  _ realize, the rapturous smile slipped from her face.

“Ronald?” She asked, her voice hoarse after screaming for so long. “What is it?”

He turned to look at her, attempting to school his expression from shocked to calm, but he couldn’t quite manage it and it did little to soothe Elizabeth’s nerves. 

“Ronald?” She said, again, with more force. 

Rupert stirred in her arms, sensing her distress. And Ronald crossed the room to them both, kissing the top of Elizabeth’s head… but regarding his son with an unreadable expression. 

“There’s something… wrong, darling.” Ronald said, gently. 

Elizabeth suddenly felt cold all over. Like ice had been injected into her veins. 

“Something wrong? With…” 

She looked down at her son, unable to say the words. No, there couldn’t be anything wrong with him. He was perfect. 

Ronald gently reached down when she seemed incapable of continuing, peeling the blanket back from their son. Rupert fussed and screamed, unhappily, at the cold air and the way his body was tugged. Ronald pulled his arm from where it had been tucked against Rupert’s small body and held it for Elizabeth’s inspection. There, on the inside of his forearm… the skin was blank. Smooth and flawless where there should have been words. 

Elizabeth looked up at her husband with fear and horror, pulling Rupert away from him to wrap him back up, securely in his bundle, and hold him close to her body. Her gaze trailed from him to her own arm, where it was marked up with black. 

_**You seem distracted.** _

Three simple words. Almost meaningless in any other context - but these were the words she’d been born with. Words that were said to her by her husband. Her soulmate. And she knew that, hidden under his sleeve, were the words she’d said in return, marked on Ronald’s skin. 

These marks were how they identified each other as their destined soulmate. 

These marks were how  _ everyone _ identified their soulmates.

How could her son not have any? 

“I don’t understand.” She said, her throat tight. “How...How can he not have any words?” 

The midwife stepped closer, then, wringing her hands nervously. 

“...I’ve heard stories. Some people who are born without them. But, they’re never…” 

“They’re never normal.” Ronald finished, for the midwife. His voice was as strained as his wife’s. “Psychopaths incapable of feeling love. Or broken fools who drown in their vices. Such a small population this happens to. And our son -” 

He stops speaking, abruptly, seeing the tears welling up in his wife’s eyes. No matter how he felt in this moment, or about the future of the child, he couldn’t bring himself to tell his wife that their son was condemned to the same kind of life. 

But his silence proved to be a stronger answer than a verbal confirmation could have been and Elizabeth clutched her son closer to her body and shook her head, fiercely. 

“No.” She whispered, her lips hardly moving. As though she can hardly stand to form the words. “Our son is not going to be like that. How can you even think… he’s fine. This is a mistake. Maybe they’ll appear?” 

The midwife pressed her lips into a tight line, clearly not thinking the chances of that were very high. But Ronald shot her a nasty look as she kept her mouth shut. Silence fell and Ronald took the time to polish his glasses with the hem of his shirt, thinking through the options. 

Finally, he put his glasses back on and spoke quietly. 

“... We will tell no one about this.” He said, shooting a fierce at the midwife so that there was no doubt that she was included in the pact of speaking about this to no one. “We’ll keep his arm covered around company… and bandage it when he gets older. Many people have to do that for, erm, indecent phrases anyway. We can keep this quiet until we know what, exactly, this means.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Elizabeth said, again, stroking her fingertips over her son’s face; hardly hearing a word her husband said. 

They all looked down at the unmarked child, who was beginning to fuss and squirm in search of something to fill his empty stomach. And Elizabeth unlocked herself from her horrified trance long enough to readjust her hold on him and nurse him for the first time. She looked down at him with fierce determination, tears no longer in her eyes. 

Whatever would become of her son… 

She’d never let him feel broken or lonely. Not as long as she lived. 


	2. Silence Is An Empty Space

“Oi. Wake up.”

Ripper’s snapped command did fuck all to rouse the red haired bint lying face-down on his bed, hair matted against her face and sheets tangled around her nude form. She mumbled something incoherent and rolled over in the other direction, turning her back to him. Most of her pale skin was done up in love bites. It’d been exciting, the night before, thinking about a woman that good-looking done up in his marks… but now the sight just turned his stomach and his voice was a little rougher when he tries again.

“Get the fuck up, luv. I’ve got to be off and I’m not going anywhere if you’re still here.”

Finally stirred by the ire in his voice, the woman sat upright in bed and stretched, the sheets falling away from her chest. She leaned back, blinking the sleep from her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows, tossing her head in a way that must be meant to make her look alluring, but only succeeds in her having to sputter out the chunk of her own hair that ended up in her mouth.

The intrigue wears off in the daylight. Ripper wishes more of his flings would know that about themselves and have the decency to sneak off before he rolled out of bed.

“Hey, you.” She said, anyway. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to go.”

Ripper feels a bit like an arsehole. Hell, he _knows_ he’s more than a bit like one; but it’s hard to have sympathy for her when she stretches and shows off those black words that are marked on her arm; forever etched into her skin, “ **_Hey, you dropped your keys._ ”**

How bleedin’ cheerfully domestic. And he vaguely remembers hearing her fumble over his name with one that was _decidedly_ not his, last name, giving him enough reason to suspect that she already met the man who said those words to her. Funny, innit? The bleedin’ universe hands them an easy-peasy guide to their soulmates and people like her still find a way to give fate a two-fingered salute.

“What, not interested in having a go? I should have guessed you were all talk, last night.” She said, dropping the sheets from her body and rising with a demure smile.

Huh. That’s right. He did have some memory of telling her that he planned on having her more than once. Well, that was mostly just talk for the sake of talk and definitely before she used the wrong name. Sure, he’d still shagged her even after her little slip, but that wasn’t a black mark on his ledger, now was it? It’s not like he was betraying anyone. Had to have someone to betray first, yeah?

Ripper cast a look at his own arm, hidden underneath a long sleeve. But he didn’t need to pull it back to know that his skin was still blank. Free from any words, binding him to anyone. And if he’s honest with himself, that’s half the resentment. Sure, people like this meant an easy lay for him and a few hours to forget his damage; but that didn’t mean he liked to see them after. Didn’t mean he wanted to be face-to-face with someone who’d squander something like that. Never knowing how good they’ve got it and running around with the likes of him, instead.

Bah.

“Out.” Ripper says, again, pinching the bridge of his nose before he can start to spiral. Too early for that shite.

“Men.” She muttered, stepping out of his bedroom and picking up a trail of her clothes on the way. Ripper stood in the doorway, his back against the doorframe, watching with a scowl as she pulled her clothes on.

“I’ll leave you my number in case you change your mind… or if you’re just ever lonely.” She said, tossing her hair again and scrawling out her number on a napkin that she left on a counter.

Ripper just stared at her until she slipped out the door. It had hardly shut all the way behind her before his phone started ringing and, for a wild moment, he wondered if she’d somehow snagged _his_ number before leaving and it takes all of his self-control not to take the chance and just throw it out the damned window.

He doesn’t. He fishes it from his pocket and answers it, instead.

“What?” He growls.

“Something’s amiss.”

Philip’s voice, booming and full of laughter as always, comes from the other end. And Ripper relaxes some, if not completely. Granted, Phil’s hardly the first person he wants to hear from, this early in the morning, he’s practically a godsend in comparison to the odds that his mystery caller was his not-so-mysterious lay.

“That’s your “I haven’t been laid in days” voice and it doesn’t match the “Look at how I scored” text I got from you last night. Explain!”

“Fuck off.” Ripper said, instead, ever a man of few words.

It doesn’t seem to be enough to put Phil off, today, though. “Clingy, huh? You have the worst luck.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk…” Ripper muttered, grabbing his jacket from where it was hanging over the back of the couch. He really did have to be off - that wasn’t just some excuse he made up to be rid of the bint. “Aren’t you engaged?”

“Yeah, but I _asked_ her. So, I’m the clingy one and therefore am a problem, not a problem-haver.”

Ripper laughed, in spite of himself, but coughed and managed to turn it into a growl before Philip could feel like he’d gotten one over on him.

“Mate, it sounds like you’re inviting me to bring her to her senses.”

“I am not. If anything, I’m inviting you to bring me to _my_ senses.”

Ripper laughs, again. It’s hard not to when Phil’s opening his mouth. But there’s a noticeable edge to his laughter. “Yeah… thanks, but I think I’ve had enough of shagging someone else’s soulmate for one day.”

“Ah.” Phil said, going quiet for a minute. He, like everyone else, never seemed to know what to say to things like that. But he, unlike others, bounced back quickly. “If you think about it, you’d be shagging somebody’s else’s soulmate even if we didn’t all have the words. That’s sort of what dating is when you think about it.”

“Nice to know that I’ll always be the casual fuck, never the long-term screw.”

Ripper meant that to be playful. It didn’t quite come out that way. Philip grew quiet again. And Ripper, never one to enjoy tense silences, finally spoke again.

“Look, I have to go. Supposed to meet Rayne for something stupid, today.”

“Usual stupid or advanced stupid?”

“Guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

“Well, hey. Phone me when you’re done. I’ve got nothing planned for tonight - we could get drinks. Just the two of us. Or more, depending on whether or not D miraculously finds out that we made plans that didn’t involve her.”

“Whose fucking idea was it for you to marry her, again?”

“Fate’s.”

“Wanker.”

‘I’m serious.” Phil said, again, his tone a little pleading now. “Hang out with me?”

“...You’re paying.”

“Obviously.”

“...I’ll see.” Ripper said, after a moment of deliberation. He knew he could use it - some quality time with a good friend, rather than dwelling on his own eternal state of damage and getting drunk enough to think shagging the nearest bird will fix the ache - but there was something difficult about spending time with Phil now that he and Deirdre realized they were soulmates.

Thanks to Ripper, actually. Phil had only been his friend and then he’d gone and introduced him to the group, cementing his fate as a permanent fixture with his first words to them being the ones etched into Deirdre’s arm.

If Ripper hadn’t invited him, maybe things wouldn’t have changed.

But… no. He can’t think that way. As pissy as he is, denying his friends their happiness is a step too far. So, he just nods even though Phil can’t see him.

“I’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Ethan had only wanted him around for the usual kind of stupid - drinking, flipping through books on magic, and fooling around. Ripper didn’t mind a chin wag or a few drinks… but he wasn’t interested in falling into the familiar comfort of Ethan Rayne. Not so soon after being shaken up by what was supposed to be a casual lay.

Ethan was unsympathetic as ever when Ripper pushed him off of his lap and onto the floor.

“Boo.” He said, jutting out his lower lip and giving Ripper a pitiful look where he landed on the ground, looking rumpled by the unceremonious dump from Ripper’s lap. “When did you stop being fun?”

“Not in the mood, E.” Ripper said, shortly, stretching out across the couch and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, no. Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ethan drawled, picking himself up and dusting himself off…and eyeing Ripper’s lap with extreme interest, like he was half-tempted to give it another go and see if Ripper’s resolve was as strong as he said it was. And, honestly, it probably wasn’t, so Ripper was relieved when Ethan picked the safer option of curling up in the armchair over pressing his luck.

Some days, like today, Ripper couldn’t remember why he ever started hanging out with the likes of Ethan Rayne in the first place. Everything about him was easy to hate. He was loud, rude, unapologetic, demanding, and clingy in the worst ways.

But… if he cared enough to look past that, and some days he did, then he’d also be reminded that among those qualities was his razor sharp wit, and stunning loyalty. Even to Ripper - the broken, blank armed possible psychopath.

So he kept coming back ‘round.

And sometimes - though he’d never admit this to Ethan - he even wished the slighter boy was his soulmate. They certainly did seem to be made for each other. Each of them railed hard against the established way of life. Each of them hated the false joy and put-on shows that other people had. Each of them cared very little about the feelings of other people.

And Ethan - chaotic, cowardly, backstabbing, conniving Ethan - fit the bill of someone who wouldn’t have their own mark to a “T”. Ripper had never been so surprised or so… let-down as he was the day he realized that Ethan did have his own words, marring the inside of his arm. If he hadn’t… well, maybe that would have been a side that they were made for each other.

Ripper could see them, now, when Ethan lounged on the chair and it made his stomach turn.

“What the deal with you, Ripper?” Ethan demanded, suddenly, seeing the half-ill expression on Ripper’s face. “You look like you swallowed cod liver oil.”

“ ‘M fine.” He muttered, hastily.

Ethan wasn’t like Philip - he couldn’t lay out his problems in front of him. Couldn’t expect sympathy or advice. As far as Ethan was concerned, Ripper was _lucky_ that he had no words. He’d even been a little envious when he found out, for the first time, that Ripper’s arm was blank. Had told him how fortunate he was to live without being bound to anyone or anything. Which was why Ripper didn’t come and see him to be consoled. He came to be distracted.

Usually with sex. Without that, they just talked in circles or argued.

“Yeah, you look it too,” Ethan said, rolling his eyes, clearly put off by Ripper’s evasiveness. He pushed himself back out of the chair and shoved Ripper to sit upright on the couch, sliding down next to him. “Christ, I hate seeing you moping on my couch. What’s the problem? Really. Bad lay? Letter from your father? Lose your favourite wallet?”

“Fuck off and drop it, Rayne,” Ripper warned. There was no real fire behind it, though. “Did you really just invite me over to try and jump me? I wouldn’t have come all the way over if I knew that was what you wanted.”

“Yes, you would have,” Ethan said, wiggling his eyebrows.

...He had a point, but Ripper would sooner actually drink cod liver oil than admit that.

“...You know, you can talk to me.” Ethan said, suddenly. “I know you talk to Phil. And Cliff. Real great pals, the lot of you. But, I’ve known you longer and better than them and I could help if you -”

“Did Phil call you?” Ripper demanded, interrupting what he was sure was a very heartfelt and well-rehearsed speech.

Ethan faltered. That was really all the answer Ripper needed and he punched the air in annoyance.

“Fuckwit.” He snarled out, the word dripping with annoyance. “Both of you, actually. God, I’m never telling any of you anything again.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Ethan said, his expression still glum. “You think anyone else is going to put up with your shite, mate? We’re all you’ve got and like it or not, we worry.”

Ripper’s still torn between annoyance at Phil for staging some sort of emotional intervention between him and _Ethan_ of all people and morbid curiosity at what Phil could have possibly told Ethan to inspire such a bizarrely impassioned speech from him.

“I’m only going to say this once more. Fuck off.” Ripper said, slowly. Enunciating. Leaving no room for confusion or argument.

So, maybe it was more that Ripper was unwilling to accept sympathy from Ethan than it was that E was incapable of offering it. But, really. It got more and more uncomfortable hang out with this lot, every year. Thomas had found his soulmate last year, now Phil and D were looking forward to wedding bells…

And Ethan?

Ethan would meet his, eventually. Those words on his arm guaranteed it. And the lot of them, wrapped up in their own happiness, were going to look at poor, wordless Ripper… and he couldn’t bloody deal with that. He just wanted his mates to be his mates and drink themselves to near death alongside him the way they always had. Not try and counsel him through something they knew nothing about.

Fuck the lot of them.

“Rip -”

Ripper jumped up from the couch before Ethan, who never could let anything go, could try again to make Ripper talk to him.

“I told Phil I’d meet him for something,” Ripper said, shortly. There were still a good four or five hours before he’d actually have to meet Phil, but those were hours better spent moping in solitude than having to sit through Ethan trying to _relate_ to him. “I’ll see you ‘round, E.”

Ethan settled back against the couch, sneering lightly at Ripper high-tailing away from him.

“Yes, well… do tell darling Philip that I said ‘Lo and thanks for inviting me to tag along.”

“Passive aggression doesn’t suit you, Rayne.”

“You may be right. What about direct aggression? I could turn the both of you into gerbils.”

“You’d never use magic on me.”

Ripper pulled his boots back on and fished his cigarettes from his pocket. His shoulders relaxed infinitesimally when Ethan shifted back to familiar, bitter territory.

“Oh, yeah. Because I care _sooo_ much about you.” Ethan agreed, sardonically.

“No. Because I’d beat the tar out of you before you could finish the incantation and we both know it.” Ripper said, lighting his cigarette and then tossing the remains of the pack at Ethan as a way of peacemaking. He still needed him, even if his mood was piss-poor now.

Talking to Ethan wasn’t something he liked to do.

Other things, though? Well, they were nice when he was in the mood for it. And that wasn’t something he was ready to let go of. Call him a selfish prick…

“See you later.” He said, again, pulling the door open and storming out of Ethan’s flat without a second glance behind him.

 

* * *

 

Ripper’d considered canceling on Philip, just to spite him for ratting him out to Ethan, but it had only taken twenty minutes spent alone in his piss-poor excuse for a flat to have him reconsidering just how much he wanted Phil to know that he was pissed off. Besides, the better revenge here would be to go along with him and yell at him in person, yeah? So, he begrudgingly met Phil at the pub located between Ripper’s place and his, showing up just twenty minutes late and with a scowl so deep that it was starting to seem like it was going to leave a permanent indent in his face.

Phil pretended not to notice the black cloud that was circling around Ripper’s head and waved him over, joyfully, patting the empty seat next to him at the bar and hollering with glee when Ripper sat down next to him.

Three empty glasses next to his left arm made it obvious enough to Ripper that someone hadn’t been committing himself to stay sober in Ripper’s absence.

“I was starting to think you’d chickened out on me. I was about to text you.” Philip said, just a little too loudly.

“Thought about it.” Ripper said, shortly.

But his ire all but vanished completely when the bartender - a pretty little thing with dark curls and wide, brown eyes made her way over to him to take his drink order. He let his gaze roam over her, appreciatively. As a rule, he generally didn’t try to sweet-talk the staff of any place, as they weren’t usually in the position to tell him to fuck off if they weren’t interested, but he was reconsidering that personal rule for her.

She either didn’t notice the once-over he gave her or was just too used to being checked out by patrons to give much of a reaction to it. The cheerful “how can I help you” smile never left her face and she got him his shots in record time before bustling off to help the next person.

Philip stole his attention back before he could start to think of a less-than-creepy way to approach her.

“Ethan said you were going to hit me when you walked in here.” He said, still half-shouting over the other people in the pub, and Ripper’s scowl reappeared.

“Since when the fuck do you two talk about me?”

“Since always. About as long as you’ve been talking about Ethan to me. We’re all friends. We all talk. Don’t be such a soddin’ primadonna.” Philip said, taking a drink of his ale.

Ripper slammed back his first shot, unsure if he enjoys that thought or not. On one hand, it’s...almost nice that they’re all so close. On the other, being talked about and discussed at length makes his skin crawl.

“I’m fine,” Ripper said, hotly. “As I keep bloody saying. You lot could just ask me if you’re so fucking concerned.”

“We do ask you. That doesn’t mean you’re honest with us. Or yourself.”

Philip loses his philosophical edge when he’s drunk, making it easier for Ripper to ignore the truth to his words.

“D thinks the wedding is making you uncomfortable.”

Philips’s also unusually tactless when drunk. Ripper stiffened in his seat, gripping his second shot so hard that the glass might shatter in his fist.

“Not the first time she’s been wrong. Won’t be the last.” Ripper said, finally, chewing on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood before taking his second shot. The burn of alcohol is soothing and drains some of the tension from his shoulders.

“You _don’t_ have a problem with the wedding, then?”

Ripper doesn’t know the answer to that. He already knows that part of him hates that Philip and D had to be each other’s soulmates, of every single person on this planet. But that was more about group dynamic than being mad that they found each other, right? He just didn’t want things to change any more than they already had. Thomas finding love with someone none of them knew had already ruined things. He couldn’t imagine losing both Phil and D at the same time, and to each other.

But that was all it was, right? Wanting his mates to stay his mates?

“...I don’t like weddings in general.” Ripper says, finally, when he realizes that Philip is still looking at him expectantly. “Don’t fucking start pouting. It’s not personal, yeah? It’s… I don’t have…”

He shouldn’t have to talk about this, in public. So he stops before he can remind Philip that he doesn’t have a soulmate. That there are no words to guide him to his happy ending. And he wouldn’t be twenty. Not wanting to have words at all was easy when he was young and only interested in easy lays and quick hookups. But what about after? He’d want something more eventually, right?

“You haven’t been acting like yourself, lately, is all. We’re worried.”

“Don’t be.” Ripper snapped, suddenly deciding that he’s sick of hearing people say that to him.

Philip raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Fine. I won’t. Tonight. I didn’t invite you out to lecture you all night. I could uh...wingman for you?”

Ripper barked out a laugh in spite of himself. Philip, though cheerful and a decent bloke all around, was not the first choice he’d make for a “wingman”, even on a bad night. Hell, Ripper would invite Ethan to help him score before Phil. At least Ethan knew his type…

“What? Don’t fucking laugh, Rip.” Philip said, narrowing his eyes as Ripper threw back his last shot. “I can be a good wingman. Uh… what about that one?”

He nodded his head in the direction of a brunette, sitting in a corner booth by herself. Ripper could see the wedding ring from where he was and just stared at Phil until he, too, realized his mistake and looked in the opposite direction.

“Oh, there’s a cute little redhead. You like redheads, right? She -”

“Not a chance.”

The bartender, who’d been wiping down the counter just to the left of them, overheard Philip’s not-so-subtle commentary and looked up and over at them with an amused smile on her lips.

“Not a chance?” Philip repeated, dumbly.

“I know Laura. She’s a regular.” The bartender said, slowly. Meaningfully. “So’s her girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Phil said. He deflated for a moment, but perked back up. “Hey, are you inter-”

Ripper kicked him, hard, but the damage was done. The bartender laughed, sympathetically, and shook her head.

“Ah, I don’t date where I work. I see way too many of these guys at their worsts to think about sleeping with them.” She said, gently, careful not to look at Ripper as she spoke.

Ripper was going to kill Phil.

“I need a smoke. Be right back.” Ripper muttered, instead of punching Phil in the side of the head. He hopped down from the barstool and dashed for the exit, nearly knocking over some soused fellow trying to get up and out of his seat on the way out the door.

It was quieter, outside. The air was cool and washed over his flushed skin like a much-needed balm of his unintentionally inflicted wounds. He fished around in his pockets for his cigarettes… and then swore when he remembered that he’d thrown what he had left at Ethan.

Well, looks like his nicotine craving was going unsatiated. He could go back and ask Phil for one, but he didn’t want to have to go and see the bartender so soon after being embarrassed like that by a well-meaning but otherwise completely stupid mate.

So, he stood out there for a few minutes. Watching cars go by, reading street signs, and just otherwise trying to clear his head without occupying his hands. And, when he was ready to go back in and maybe try and convince Phil that what he really needed was to go home and sleep - really sleep, this time - he turned to walk back inside…

And slammed right into someone.

Ripper only staggered back a few paces, but was already swearing before he could really get a grasp on what had just happened and who’d he’d run into.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, fuckwit?” He snarled, lifting his head in time to see a slightly dazed-looking man picking himself back up from the ground, clearly taking the crash harder than Ripper had.

He’d been about to dust himself off when Ripper spoke, his hands freezing and his dark brown eyes lifting from the ground to meet Ripper’s gaze. He said nothing, but he didn’t seem… embarrassed about crashing into Ripper or even upset that he’d just been yelled at, despite it having been Ripper who wasn’t watching where he was going. He looked a little shocked, yes, but there was also a strange brightness in his expression like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to call him a fuckwit.

Ripper's own furious expression faltered.

“...Right then.” He said, caught off guard by the lack of response. He’d been anticipating someone swearing back at him. “...You wanna get the fuck outta the way, mate? You going inside or what?”

The dark haired boy - yes, boy, he hardly looked as though he could be older than nineteen - still said nothing. He trailed his gaze over Ripper, inspecting him.

Ripper, who’d had just about enough of lunatics for one day, was about to shove past him when the door to the bar opened and the fit bartender from inside appeared, no trace of her previous smile on her lips. In fact, she was looking a Ripper with such intense loathing that, for a wild moment, he wondered what the fuck Phil had said since he walked out.

“What the fuck?” She snarled out, stepping out and in front of the silent boy, taking a protective stance. “Is this how you handle all of your rejections? Moping outside and then attacking their little brothers?”

“What?” Ripper asked, his gaze darting between the two of them. Little brother? How the fuck would he have known that? “I wasn’t bloody attacking anyone!”

The girl snorted with disbelief, turning to look back at the boy.

“Randall, did he hurt you?”

The boy - Randall - finally looked away from Ripper, and shook his head once.

The woman didn’t seem inclined to believe him, shooting Ripper another furious look, and wrapping her arm around Randall’s shoulders, pulling him in close.

“You stay the fuck away from him.” She said, looking back at Ripper. “...Come on, Randy. My shift’s over. We can go.”

They marched off without another word, though Ripper did see Randall crane his head to try and get another look at him as they went.  

Ripper stared after the two of them, scratching his head. Genuinely puzzled by what the fuck had just happened.

 

Today was really just not his day.


	3. Silent Men Like Still Waters

“Oi! Ripper! Watch it!”

Ripper swore, loudly, nearly dropping the fridge he was lugging from one side of the shop to the other at the yell in his ear. He grunted with exertion, his face red with the effort he was putting into moving the damned thing, and he set it down with a “thud”, turning to scowl at the idiot who’d just screamed at him.

“I _was_ watching it.” He said, venomously, valiantly resisting the urge to throw a punch. No matter how good that might feel, it wouldn’t do him any. The purple-flushed man that was glaring up at him was still his boss, technically.

His boss, a squat little fellow named Ted, seemed like he had half a mind to box Ripper’s ears.

“How could you have been watching anything with that fridge blocking your view?” He asked, his voice low and dripping with disdain. “You nearly ran right into David. I can’t have any more accidents in the shop, you hear me?”

Ripper had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting.

He still needed this job. And he’d keep reminding himself of that fact until the urge to storm out went away. The work hardly seemed worth it, anymore. He was making but pennies an hour, working under the table to keep his father from being able to track him down… but that was still pennies more than he had in his pocket at the mo’, so he only nodded and picked the fridge back up, resuming carrying it over to an empty space so he could figure out what the fuck was wrong with it in time for Mrs. Brussel to pick it up this afternoon.

It’d been two days since his misadventure in the pub with Phil, and he hadn’t spoken to any of them since he’d stormed out on him, following the bartender’s rant against him. His phone had been ringing non-stop, blowing up with texts and calls trying to figure out where he was, and if he was doing alright.

None of which was helping with his mood. Used to be a time that he could vanish and no one would worry. If he wanted someone trailing his every move, he would have stayed in school rather than fucking up and out of Oxford. Wouldn’t have turned his back on his father - and the Council, by extension - if he wanted someone checking in after him or tsking their tongues with pity over his poor, wordless state of being.

He’d been hoping some time away from everything and everyone would be the cure to his blackened mood and the dark thoughts that kept swirling around in his head, but no one had given him the space he’d felt he needed.

“Aw, for fuck’s sake. Ripper, where’s that vacuum I had you fix? Mr. Grady is here early.”

“Didn’t get to it,” Ripper said, without looking away from the fridge.

“...What do you mean, you didn’t get to it?”

Ripper turned his head, slowly, blinking rapidly in Ted’s direction. Was that a bleedin’ trick question?

“You threw five appliances at me to work on. Only got through two.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet,” Ripper said, simply.

He knew that he was being a prick. Entirely self-aware of his own behaviour, but he just couldn’t stop. It was like a boulder rolling down a hill; nothing to do but watch it go and hope that it didn’t crush something important.

Ted’s face flushed purple, again.

“...This isn’t working, Ripper.” He said, his voice oddly strangled.

Ripper felt his heart sink. This was the part where he should be getting down on his knees. Apologizing. Begging not be fired, because he really did need the money.

But he doesn’t. He just stares at him with open loathing, like Ted was the root source of all of his problems.

“I’m going to have to let you go. I can’t have anyone here who doesn’t do the work.”

Ripper only nods. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he thinks he’s going to rip a hole right through his face and steps away from the fridge that he’d been working over.

The whole shop’s gone quiet. Everyone listening to the conversation.

Ripper glares openly at everyone before he storms out.

Sod the lot of them, anyway. He can find a better place to work.

 

* * *

 

It’s a surprise to no one, least of all himself, that Ripper ends up in another pub that night. It’s a new one, where no one knows him, and he’s even managed to charm the bartender - a strawberry blonde number with an impressively sheer shirt - out of a few rounds, for free, which had done wonders to distract him from the fact that he’s skint and jobless.

This place was strangely comforting, in spite of all that. Quieter than the places he usually attended, with soft music playing and quiet conversation all around. No one so drunk that they yelled over top of the other patrons or smashed up the furniture. It wasn’t quite his scene, certainly not a place he’d end up twice, but for the moment… it was nice.

And then he felt someone settle into the seat beside him.

Ripper, who’d already decided against taking someone home with him, turned with a fierce expression meant to ward off whoever had decided to get too close to him… but that expression faltered when he realized that he recognized the person settled in next to him. It’d be hard to forget those wide brown eyes and messy dark hair.

“Oi.” He said, his voice soft to match the tone of the pub. “I know you. You’re ah… the kid from a few nights ago, yeah? Randall?”

The one with the lunatic sister whose nice arse did not distract from how scary she could get, for no apparent reason. Ripper craned his head, wondering if she was going to pop up and out of nowhere to scream at him, some more. But he didn’t see a familiar head of dark curls or a fierce scowl in his direction, so maybe it was safe.

Randall smiled, nodding his head at Ripper’s question, and looking bizarrely pleased that Ripper seemed to remember him. He didn’t actually answer, though, apparently keeping up with his “silent type” scheme, though he did make a bizarre gesture that Ripper didn’t quite understand.

He started to tell him, so, but the bartender - Anne - spoke first.

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She said, flashing a dazzling smile over at Randall. “Coming right up - oh, how’s Alice? I haven’t seen her on the schedule for a few weeks. Found steady pay, has she?”

Randall shrugged, pursing his lips into a contemplative expression and Ripper watched the two of them, completely dumbfounded. Alice… now, was that his sister or his girl or summat? Ripper glanced down at Randall’s arm, a force of habit, but his words were concealed by his sleeve.

“Well, good for her if she has. I’ve been bouncing between three places and it’s been killer on my feet. Here you go.”

She placed a glass of Coke in front of Randall, who smiled brightly at her and made another odd gesture before he took a sip of it. Anne smiled back but then bustled off to take care of another customer, leaving Ripper and Randall to themselves. And Ripper, who had been completely unable to make sense of what he’d seen and heard, turned to look at Randall again.

“...You a mime or something?” He asked, skeptically.

Randall made a strange, breathy sound, his face brightening with another grin. He shook his head and made the sound again.

This was really starting to get on Ripper’s nerves.

“Well, if you’re not a mime, then could you bloody use your words?” He asked, debating whether or not it was worth it to move elsewhere if Randall was going to keep acting like this. What the fuck was he doing, anyway? Playing a joke? Trying to see how long Ripper would keep talking to him if he didn’t say anything back?

Randall shifted in his seat, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cell-phone. He glanced conspiratorially at Ripper and then started to type. Texting someone rather than just answering him. Ripper scowled and took another drink of his beer. Fine, then. He wasn’t going to keep playing into whatever the fuck this was. He -

Randall tugged on his sleeve, drawing his attention back to him. He held up his phone. It was open to the notepad app. Ripper reached over, with a sigh, tipping back the phone enough so that he could actually read what had been written.

**I’m non-verbal.**

“Non...what?” Ripper repeated, no closer to understanding. “You’ve taken a vow of silence or summat?”

Randall blinked at him. He pulled back the phone and typed something else. He held it back out to Ripper. A new line of text was waiting for him, underneath the first.

**Otherwise known as mute. But that’s kinda offensive.**

It took Ripper a few seconds to understand what he was being told, but as soon as his alcohol-addled brain grasped the concept, his eyes opened comically wide and he gaped at Randall, like a fish out of water, trying to think of a way to take his foot out of his mouth.

“Oh, bloody…” He said, softly, squeezing his eyes shut and wincing. When he opened them, again, Randall was still looking at him. He didn’t seem mad, just waiting for Ripper to continue. “I uh… well, you should know that I’m a right plonker. I didn’t mean to...I...aw, fuck. I’m Ripper, by the way. Sorry about… that.” 

Randall made that breathy sound, again, his shoulders shaking. And Ripper realized that he was _laughing._ Part of him wanted to be annoyed by that… the rest of him was just glad that Randall wasn’t offended. He took his phone back and typed something else.

**I get that a lot. No worries.**

Ripper winced. He couldn’t imagine… going through life without ever being able to say anything about it, and having people - like Ripper, actually - having a go at him for it. Bloody hell.

“That must be bloody annoying,” Ripper said, finally, because Randall seemed like he was waiting for an answer from him. “No wonder your ah, sister got so pissed off and thought I was having a go at you.”

Randall winced at that, his lips curling back into a grimace. He typed out another message.

**She said you were hitting on her. :(**

Riper nearly choked on his drink at the “frowny face” at the end of the message, and it was hard not to laugh when he realized that Randall was frowning, too.

“I was not!” Riper said, defending himself. “...Well, technically, a mate of mine was hitting on her on my behalf, but I didn’t ask him to. He just thought he was being useful.”

Randall raised his eyebrows, skeptically, not seeming particularly inclined to believe Ripper. And, Ripper couldn’t fault him for that. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t _thought_ about hitting on her. He just hadn’t followed through. 

“I wasn’t.” He said, again, not entirely sure why he feels like he has to make Randall believe that. Maybe because he’s talking about the bloke’s sister… maybe to make up for coming across as such an arsehole just moments ago, with the whole “mime” jab, but Randall just shrugged and looked vaguely uncomfortable.

He took a sip of his Coke. Ripper watched him with an interest he couldn’t explain to himself.

“You frequent pubs for the caffeine, do you?” He asked because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Randall started to gesture, in what Ripper was starting to realize was BSL - British Sign Language - but then he seemed to remember that Ripper doesn’t know what those gestures mean, and typed another message out on his phone.

**I have a very low tolerance for alcohol. I get drunk just thinking about whiskey.**

Ripper laughed, at that. And Randall seemed pleased that he’d made a joke funny enough to move him.

“So, why come to places like these, then?”

Another quickly typed message. Ripper wondered if it was annoying for him to have to write every time he wanted to say something.

**Alice has been bartending for a long time… I hang out at her job(s). Made friends with the other bartenders.**

He shrugged, then, when Ripper finished reading.

Well, that explained how Anne seemed so used to Randall and knew his signing. That’s one mystery solved… and now it seems more than likely that Alice is his sister’s name, not a wife or a girlfriend. Ripper isn’t sure why that’s a relief to him.

“You certainly live an interesting life, Randall.” He said.

Randall only shrugged again and finished off his Coke. Anne came back around almost immediately.

“You want another one, sweets?” She asked Randall, but he shook his head.

“Alice waiting for you?”

He nodded.

“Well, don’t be a stranger. I miss seeing you around. You’re the only one who doesn’t stare at my chest all - just a mo’!”

Anne gritted her teeth when another patron hollered after her and threw Randall a “what-did-I-tell-you” look before she bustled off. Randall made a face and climbed back off of the stool, pulling his jacket back on and sliding his phone back into his pocket and tossing a few bills down to cover what he’d ordered. Ripper watched him, feeling strangely put out that his silent companion was about to make himself scarce. It’d been...nice, sitting next to someone who wasn’t grilling him about this, that, or the other thing.

“Well, it was nice seeing you again.” Ripper said, stretching.

Randall nodded his head at him, once. Then he waved, a cheerful smile on his face. And Ripper, despite feeling like an idiot, waved back.

There’s a strange emptiness in the air where Randall didn’t wish him farewell, and Ripper watches him leave with a strange look on his face.

You meet all sorts in pubs. But Ripper had a sense that Randall had been something unique.


	4. A Fool Is Known By His Speech

Ripper ghosted his mates for two days before finally breaking out of the funk he’d settled into and agreeing to meet the lot of them for breakfast before three out of five of them took off for work. But, settling back into routine with them didn’t mean he was any more mollified about the dark mood that had plagued him the week before and he was already scowling by the time he caught sight of the four of them, settled in at a booth in the back. The only saving grace was that Tom was alone - no new wife to make small talk with and have to curb their tongues around.

He’d call that a win. The only win, as they were bound to take the mickey out of him for disappearing for two days. He clenched his teeth as he finally threw himself down into the booth, next to Ethan, and lifted his hand in response to the chorus of hellos and too-cheerful smiles.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Ethan said, the first to break the faux cheer in the air. He wriggled in his seat and shifted to wrap his arm around Ripper’s shoulders. “Thought you were going to cancel on us.”

“Thought about it,” Ripper grunted.

He really was late. They’d already ordered - enough to share, as usual, so he didn’t feel bad about nabbing a few soggy chips from the center of the table.

“Well, nice of you to let the angel on your shoulder win an argument for once,” Philip said before he nudged Dee. “And, ah, now that you’re here… we have some news.”

“Ah, we don’t have to talk about that now -” Ethan said, his grip around Ripper’s shoulder, ignoring the way that Ripper’s lip curled and how he tried to shrug him off.

“Oi,” Ripper said, sharply, over Ethan’s protests. The fact that Rayne had to try and curb Philip’s tongue gave him a good suspicion as to what the topic was, and the only thing more annoying than having to hear about it was when the lot of them walked on eggshells around him. “We’re all grown-ups, here. Whatever you have to say, just bloody say it.”

Philip smirked triumphantly in Ethan’s direction and Dee launched directly into it, speaking quickly as though the words couldn’t bug Ripper if she got them out fast enough.

“PhilipAndIHavePickedADateForTheWeddingAndItsTwoMonthsFromNow.”

“Two months?” Thomas said, looking taken aback. “You sure that’s enough time?”

“You married whats-her-face in three weeks.” Ethan pointed out.

Thomas elbowed him in the face.

“Her name is Emily, you wanker. You know that.”

“Right, then you married Emma in three weeks -”

“Em _ily._ ”

“Emanuele?”

“Em-”

“Shut it,” Ripper said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shot a weary smile at Phil and Dee, then, mustering up what little willpower he had left to fake some cheer. “Oi, congratulations you two.”

“Thanks.”

Philip shifted against his seat, suddenly rising from the table.

“Christ, I could use a smoke. Rip - you feel like joining me?”

Ripper’s stomach growled in protest. He’d hardly had anything to eat - and he’d planned on shoving as much into his stomach as he could since he was still out a job and running pretty skint on funds. But the way that Philip said his name and the fact that no one jumped up to complain about being left out of the invitation implied that Phil had something he wanted to talk about… and apparently, everyone else knew it too.

Ripper’s stomach twisted. He swallowed hard.

“Yeah, alright.” He grunted, shrugging all the way out of Ethan’s embrace and slowly rising to his feet. He didn’t look back at any of them as he followed Phil through the pub and out the front door.

The air still had a bite to it when they stepped out and off to the side, out of the flow of people walking in and out of the pub. They leaned back against the wall and Philip pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He shook out two from the back, holding both between his lips to light them, and then offered one to Ripper.

Ripper took it with a muttered “thanks”, and took a drag, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach.

He knew this was coming.

Dee and Phil had only been engaged for a few weeks, but Ripper’d been waiting for this moment since Phil had popped the question - the moment when he’d be politely, but firmly, asked to stay the fuck away from the wedding.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been asked to keep away. He’d been uninvited from family affairs, co-workers unions, all for having a “blank” arm and being seen as some sort of blackened omen. A loveless, soulmate-less omen.

He’d always figured that was half the reason that Tom eloped with Emily. Easier than having to cut Ripper out of things. But Deirdre wanted a real wedding, so…

“Right. This is a lot harder to ask than I thought it was going to be.” Philip said, delicately, shattering the silence between them.

Ripper only blew a few smoke rings in response, nodding his head once.

“I mean...I knew I wanted to ask you this from the moment that I decided to marry Dee, but I wasn’t sure how it’d make you - I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position. You’re the reason I met Dee and you’re my best mate, so I -”

“Phil.” Ripper said, interrupting the rambling speech. “It’s fine. I know what you’re going to say and I will.”

Relief flooded Philip’s expression.

“You will? Oh, that’s - bloody fantastic! Ethan said I shouldn’t ask you, that you wouldn’t want to do it, but I knew you’d be alright with it! Well, I didn’t _know_ , but I hoped you’d be…”

He pauses, shaking his head and laughing. And Ripper’s heart sank a little lower in his chest. It was one thing to know that Philip and Dee didn’t want him at the wedding, but to be so bloody pleased that Ripper was willing to stay away? His eyes stung, a bit, but he blamed that on the wind and took a sharp drag from his cigarette, reducing most of it to ash in one go.

“I hope you can write a speech.” Philip continued on. “A good one - and don’t bloody mention any of those birds I went with before Dee, yeah? She’s small but dangerous. I think she’d eviscerate me at our own wedding and wear my ribcage as a hat to match the dress.”

Ripper blinked, upset turning to confusion.

“...A speech?”

“Well, yeah,” Phil said, still grinning. “It’s tradition? The best man always gives a speech.”

“...Best man?”

Words ceased to have any real meaning, leaving Ripper gaping at him like a bloody moron. Best man? That’s what Phil was asking of him? He wasn’t telling him to piss off?

“...Yeah.”

Philip’s smile faded.

“What did you _think_ I was asking?”

“I thought you were asking me to stay the fuck away from the wedding,” Ripper said, honestly, too baffled to even think to pretend that he’d been on the same page the whole time.

Philip’s expression turned dire… and then he rolled his eyes, hitting Ripper in the arm.

“You fucking loony!” He asked, his tone a little sharp. “Dee and I would both kill you if you missed it - you’re one of our best mates. Of _course,_ we want you there. I want you to be my best man, Rip. I want you to be standing right there. I mean… if you don’t want to be part of the wedding, I at least want you as a guest.”

Ripper takes a moment to contemplate those words, dropping his cigarette down and crushing it out with the heel of his boot, a strange feeling in his chest. Of course, he’d been to one or two weddings when he was little. Before people knew that he didn’t have any words of his own - before his Mum passed and could no longer help him hide the secret and before his Da didn’t care enough to keep his freakish nature under wraps.

But he hadn’t been to one since people found out.

And he’d _never_ been incorporated into the ceremony.

“...You sure you want me to be part of it? Being loveless and all?”

“You’re not loveless,” Philip said, rolling his eyes. “I love you, you bloody idiot.”

Ripper shot him a look, opening his mouth to tell him off… but the bitter words just didn’t make it all the way to his mouth.

“...Yeah, alright. I’ll be your best man.”

Philip’s face brightened, again. He looked happier than Ripper had ever seen him, before,and that familiar ache settled down into Ripper’s stomach. Belonging must bring out a certain shine in people. Bitterness threatened to rise up in him, again, but he refused to let it overtake him twice. So, he just says -

“But I make no promises about the speech.”

“Wanker.”

 

* * *

 

As happy as Ripper had been to find that he was being incorporated into Philip and Dee’s wedding was as miserable and exasperated as he was later that night, when they’d all gone out to celebrate the two of them having picked a date.

The night had started out, alright. Tom _had_ brought his new wife along for this outing, formally introducing them for what was really the first time. Emily was a sweet, quiet girl - not the type to run with them, but Thomas seemed so ecstatic when she was around that no one mentioned that fact. Drinks had been passed out, laughter roared between them, and Ripper had felt oddly hopeful…

That is, he had been hopeful until the lot of them had taken to dancing. Philip and Dee, Thomas and Emily… even Ethan paired off with a brunette he’d met at the bar, though there was less dancing there and more near public indecency.

Ripper could have paired off with one of the many lovely birds that were circling around him, working up the nerve to speak to him but, for some reason, the idea irritated him more than it soothed and he stayed up at the bar, instead, signaling for shot after shot.

Someone tapped on his shoulder as he was reaching for his fifth, and he turned with a scowl, expecting to see one of his friends come to try and coax him into having fun or tease him mercilessly, neither of which he’s in the mood for, but instead of Phil, Tom, Dee, or Rayne… he sees a familiar mop of dark hair and a bright smile that melts the scowl from his face.

“Oh.” He said, pleasantly surprised. “It’s you.”

Randall waved, still smiling, and Ripper wondered if it was odd that he’d run into him so soon, again. But, Randall had mentioned that his sister worked pubs and that he’d hung out in a lot of them. Maybe it was weirder for Randall to see him again, so soon. Either way, Ripper wasn’t feeling sober enough to question it at length, so he just gestured to the empty stool next to him.

“Have a seat, mate.” He offered.

Randall nodded and hopped up onto the stool. Literally hopped, and Ripper tried not to snicker, just pushing one of his shots over to Randall, who looked skeptically at it.

“C’mon. One drink.” Ripper said. “On me.”

Randall pressed his lips together skeptically...but then took the shot, neatly. He grimaced at the taste, making Ripper laugh again before he studied him a little closer. Randall looked flushed, and his dark hair was a mess. He looked tired - bags under his eyes.

“What’s got you all hot n’ bothered, mate?” He asked, grinning slyly. “Have a go with someone in a closet or summat?”

Randall made that breathy laughing sound and rescued his phone from his pocket, clearly remembering that Ripper didn’t know any BSL. He typed quickly and then pushed his phone over, the notepad open and a message written out.

**Just got here from work.**

“You run marathons for a living, then?” Ripper asked, pushing the phone back so Randall could answer him.

**Nah. I work at the children’s hospital - I help teach kids who have recently lost their hearing BSL. It’s great. It doesn’t bother than that I can’t talk because they can’t hear me anyway. They’re a little rambunctious so I have to chase them around, sometimes.**

“Children’s hospital?” Ripper repeated, as he quickly scanned over the message. “That’s...wow, mate. That’s real decent of you.”

Randall shrugged, his cheeks flushing a brighter shade of pink at Ripper’s praise of him.

**I just like to help out. I wanted to be a REAL doctor when I was little, but that was before I found out that doctors have to be able to talk. It’s better this way, I think because I’m making a real difference for kids who, like me, can’t communicate the “normal” way. Plus, they can’t rely solely on lip-reading with me, because I don’t talk.**

He may not talk quickly, but he certainly does type fast. Ripper hardly has more than a few seconds between messages and it’s lucky that he reads as fast as Randall types.

“Helping kids is nothing to sneeze at,” Ripper says, finally, when he’s reached the end of Randall’s message. “It’s right good of you.”

How long have they been passing his phone back and forth? It’s been sliding across the bar more than shot glasses and interrupting the flow of conversation. Randall seemed to realize that, too, because he suddenly pushed the phone back… and it was open up to his contacts, a blank contact open on the screen, waiting for a number to be typed in.

Ripper hesitated. He doesn’t usually give his number out… but this was for the sake of convenience, right? So Randall didn’t have to surrender his phone every time he wanted to say something. So, he took the phone and quickly typed his number in before handing it back. Randall’s expression brightened… and good god, was he something else when he smiled like that. Ripper actually felt like shielding his eyes from the light in Randall’s.

His phone buzzed with a text a few seconds later. He pulled it from his pocket and read the message.

**So. We’ve seen each other three times just this last week. That’s weird, right?**

Ripper glanced over at him, giving him a considering look… and a thoughtful once-over. It was something, alright, but he wasn’t sure “weird” was the word for it. He wasn’t sure how or why they’d been coming into contact over and over again, but…

Ripper threw a glance at this friends. Still dancing. Still lost in their own worlds. Didn’t seem likely that anyone would miss him… and this was decent company that he didn’t want to pass on, so he turned back to Randall and his expression shifted from lightly amused to something a little more intense.

“You saying you wanna see less of me… or more?” He asked, shifting just a little closer. He doesn’t know Randall’s preferences… so this could end badly. But, judging by the flush in Randall’s face and the shy smile that curls his lips, Ripper hasn’t misjudged the situation and his heart actually thumps a little unevenly in relief.

His phone buzzed.

Only one word on the screen.

**More.**

Ripper’s mouth curled into a smirk, and suddenly his plans to go home alone and wallow in self-pity vanished into thin air. He reached out, grabbing his last shot and slamming it back, setting the glass down and pulling a few bills from his pocket, tossing them down onto the bar.

Then, he reached out and grabbed the stool that Randall was sitting on, hauling it - and him - closer, until they’re only a breath away from each other.

“You want to come home with me?” He asked, leaning in close so that his breath was hot on Randall’s ear and he grinned with satisfaction when Randall actually _shivered_ in response.

Randall nodded and Ripper got up to his feet, pulling Randall up with him.

Maybe it’d be an alright night, after all.


	5. Silence Makes No Mistakes

Night had settled nicely over London since Ripper and his mates had gone into the pub, and the moon was just a sliver in the sky, but pale light still washed over the two of them. Randall hung back, lighting a cigarette, while Ripper strolled forward to call a ride for them. He’d been hauled in by Ethan, and didn’t think Rayne would be too pleased if he took off with his shite ride in the pursuit of getting his new lay to his place… and other nights, he might have just stolen something shiny to impress his flavour of the night…

But Randall was different. The bloke taught sign language to _kids_ for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t likely to impress him by acting like an arsehole. So, he went the legal route to get them a ride and then hung back, waiting alongside Randall. He took the cigarette when Randall offered it to him, taking a drag and blowing smoke rings up into the air. They drifted up and dissipated into little wisping clouds of smoke. The air between them hummed with their combined anticipation and every second that ticked by before the cab came by was agonizingly long.

If Ripper had been with anyone else, he would have felt the need to prattle on about something; keep the silence from being too long, but it was...comfortable with him. Natural. And with his attention not being wasted on trying to keep the conversation going, he had time to focus on _other_ things. Like touching him.

Flicking away the burned out butt of the cigarette, Ripper grabbed Randall by the collar of his shirt and pulled him in, close, so that their bodies were flush against one another. Ripper hadn’t _seen_ it, yet, but if the way Randall’s body felt against his was any indication, there were lean muscles hiding underneath those clothes… and Ripper grinned, leaning in like he might kiss him, but turning his head at the last second and brushing his lips against Randall’s jaw, instead.

Randall exhaled, sharply, and Ripper was starting to consider sliding his hand under Randall’s shirt… or maybe trail his touch further down south, when a car pulled up to the curb.

Ripper growled under his breath and took a step back, noting the flush in Randall’s cheeks with a grin of approval before stepping back to gesture for Randall to go first - it’s the only polite thing to do, after all. Randall stepped forward, greeting their driver with a polite wave, and sliding over. Ripper climbed in, next, giving his address and jumping, slightly, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He settled back into his seat and he checked his phone. It was lit up with a text from Randall. How did he type so fast?

**How long of a drive?**

Ripper laughed, softly, glancing over at Randall. There’s impatience in his expression; his eyes bright even in the dark and a nervous yet excited smile on his lips, visible with every passing streetlight that let in a dim, amber glow.

Ripper reached over, his hand resting on Randall’s thigh. Stroking up and down, idly, hardly touching him at all, really, but Randall’s hips still jerked in response and Ripper had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. He didn’t want to call _too_ much attention back to them from the driver…

“Not too long.” He said, lowly, under his breath so that only Randall could hear him.

His hand crept to Randall’s inner-thigh. Still only offering light touches. But the flush in Randall’s cheeks was growing brighter. Ripper leaned closer, taking Randall’s earlobe between his teeth and nibbling. His hand inched up, fingers brushing against Randall’s zipper… and then, he cupped him through his trousers before backing off, completely, smirking at the ragged breath that Randall drew and the crease of his forehead when he scowled. 

Bit like dusting off a car. Start the engine and let it purr for a bit before the actual ride.

Randall didn’t seem to like that, at all. He squirmed and shifted away from Ripper, entirely, an actual fucking _pout_ on his face. Ripper reached out and brushes his thumb against Randall’s jutted out lower lip, before leaning in to catch his mouth in another kiss. Deeply apologetic… but not enough to not cup him, again, and squeeze just enough to taunt before backing off again as the cab comes to a halt, right outside his flat.

He tossed what cash he has left to the driver, assuming its enough to cover the bill, and when he doesn’t get any angry shouts, he grabbed Randall by the collar of his shirt and pulled him out of the cab, with him, and onto the walk. He slid his hand down to grab Randall’s and pulled him along, not sparing the cab a second glance, stumbling with his boy in two and anxious to get up the stairs to his flat.

They tripped over each other. There was pushing and shoving and laughter on Ripper’s part. The climb up the stairs was awkward and unsteady but they finally made it to his front door and he struggled to get his keys out of his pocket, having half a mind to just break the door down, but finally wrangling them and unlocking the door so he could push Randall through.

He shut the door carefully behind himself. And locked it. Just in case.

Randall was on him in a second, hands tugging at Ripper’s shirt. Insistent and demanding without ever saying word and Ripper was pleasantly surprised to discover that there was no confusion - he’s able to read what Randall wants by touch alone. He reached down to tug his shirt off while Randall’s hands nimbly worked at his belt, pulling it off of him and letting it clatter to the floor. Ripper kicked off his shoes and advanced on Randall in only his jeans, navigating them both to the bedroom with stumbling steps and stolen kisses between.

Randall was still fully clothed, save for his shoes which he’d managed to kick off at the door, and a growl builds low in Ripper’s throat. He grabbed onto the collar of Randall’s shirt and shredded the fabric in his hands, tearing it off of him and then dropping the scraps the floor. Randall stared up at him with wide, dazed eyes. But he didn’t look _too_ upset, so Ripper didn’t bother apologizing.

But he can’t help the way his gaze darts to Randall’s arm. Looking for the words. He doesn’t mean to - he doesn’t even _want_ to see, but he checks, anyway. And he’s surprised to find that they’re still covered. Electrical tape wrapped around his arm like gauze, hiding the words. It’s not technically unusual… especially with kids, whose words have to be covered if they’re particularly lewd or contain a swear or two. But he’s never seen an adult hide them, before.

It’s not his business though. And he doesn’t want to think about Randall’s soulmate, not while he’s so keen on getting his end way with him. So, he pushes those thoughts aside.

“Off with these, then.” He said, tugging at Randall’s trousers.

Randall started to strip, but not nearly as hastily as Ripper wanted, so he pushed Randall down onto the bed and loomed over him, unzipping his trousers and yanking them down so that he was clad only in his boxers. Unable to resist, Ripper leaned down over him and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss just above where the waistband of Randall’s boxers pressed into his skin.

Randall’s eyes rolled back into his head, a little. But since Ripper couldn’t see that from his angle, the only sign of his pleasure was the way his fingers tangled in Ripper’s hair and tightened, pulling gently.

It’d been a while since Ripper last brought a bloke home. He was pleased to find that it was just as thrilling - just as _right_ \- as he remembered it being. 

Ripper kissed him again, tongue laving against his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat and inhaling the musk of his skin mixed with cheap soap and the lingering traces of cheap cotton from his shirt. His trousers are still on, evident by how tight they feel on his body now, and he gently disentangled himself from Randall’s hold with what’s meant to be a low, soothing hum when Randall looks aggravated when he pulls back. He unzips his own trousers and pushes them down before he climbs back over him, lowering his head to nip at his throat before kissing him, again.   
  
“How do you want to…” Ripper started to say, raising his head and cocking his head to the side. Where had their phones ended up? Would he be able to answer? “Uh… me or you on top, mate?”

Randall blinked up at him, then wriggled against the mattress. Getting more comfortable. Ripper took that as enough of a sign, letting out a little breathless laugh as he reached down and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Randall’s boxers and pulled them down. Slowly. Savouring the moment. And he grinned when he finally had him completely stripped down, reaching down between their bodies and gripping Randall’s cock, stroking him at a leisurely to watch his hips buck up to meet his touch.

He was torn between two desires. The want to take his time with this and make it last… and the desire to get his end way as quickly as he can. Of the two, the first is more troubling to him. He’s never cared to get to know his previous lays, just did them and got them out.

Annoyed by his own off-the-track thought process, Ripper pushed it all aside and set on getting to the main event: what they were both there for. He twisted around, reaching to his nightstand drawer for a bottle of lube and a condom. He set the rubber aside and thought he should have him turn over… but stopped. Randall can’t speak. What if he did something that hurt him or something he didn’t like, and Randall couldn’t tell him so? He’ll have to go by his expression, alone, so he keeps him with his back on the bed.

Doesn’t usually look at the people he goes with. But he finds that he doesn’t mind, this time.

Ripper traces his fingers down, again, against Randall’s chest. Teasing his way down, watching with amusement as a full-bodied blush seems to follow his movements down. His hands are warm when they finally slide back to where they had been, before, and he uncaps the lube, squeezing a generous amount into his hand and warming it with friction before he set on getting him ready.

Randall couldn’t moan, but the rapture in his expression was almost enough to send Ripper over the edge before they got started, and he bit his bottom lip so hard that he tasted blood, hot and metallic, on his tongue.

For fuck’s sake, this man was going to be the _death_ of him.

 

* * *

 

Ripper frees a mostly smoked pack of cigarettes from his bedside drawer - not the brand he usually does, but the awful shite that Rayne would leave ‘round the place and that he’d only touch when he didn’t have enough dosh for his usual - placing two between his lips and lighting them both before offering one to Randall, who’s still panting beside him.

He’s cute, Ripper realizes. Even after. He knows it must make him some kind of arsehole, but he doesn’t usually have the same feelings about a person after he’s done them. Resentment comes crashing in along with those other, bitter feelings and he lashes out… but he doesn’t have that impulse, this time. In fact, he’s almost peaceful. Lying as starkers as the day he was born, next to someone who was no better than a stranger and could only grin his appreciation over at Ripper when he was offered the cigarette.

Randall blew a chain of smoke rings up the ceiling. They float lazily upward before vanishing into wisps and Ripper blows a few of his own before he sits up, just enough to eye his alarm clock. Just a little after one in the morning.

Randall shifts too, stirred by Ripper’s motions. He holds his cigarette between his teeth and Ripper watches as he reaches down for his trousers and pulls them up, and frees his phone from the pocket. And he waits patiently while Randall unlocks the screen and types up a message, holding it out for Ripper to read.

Ripper hisses at the bright light being shoved into his face, but peers blearily at the screen, anyway.

**I should probably take off?**

It’s a question. He’s giving Ripper an out to kick _him_ out if he wants to. The only problem is, Ripper isn’t sure that he _wants_ him too. He’s had people sleep it off here, before. Sometimes earlier than it was now.

“Wouldn’t bother me if you stuck around.” Ripper muttered.

He took another drag off of his own cigarette, watching as Randall shrugged and set his phone aside, curling up on his side of the bed. He’d skittered away as soon as they were finished, so quickly that Ripper had almost panicked and assumed he’d fucked up, somehow, but it had quickly become apparent that Randall just wasn’t used to being touched after the fact.

Bit sad, innit? But he’s not going to cuddle anyone who doesn’t instigate it first. The fuck is he?

“So, uh…” Ripper said, feeling the weight of the silence again.

Randall’s gaze settled back on his face. Waiting. And Ripper blanches when he realizes he has nothing meaningful to say.

“You uh… hungry or summat? I could make us a bite to eat, or we could have a drink… uh, you don’t really drink though. Could make us some tea.” 

Randall’s lips quirked with amusement. He picked his phone back up and typed out another message. He didn’t show it to Ripper, this time, though. Instead, his phone went off on the floor where it had been left.

“Aw, hell. You couldn’t have just -” Ripper started to gripe, but he was already moving. He shifted against the bed and rescued his own cell from the ground, unlocking the screen and turning the brightness all the way down before reading the message that Randall had sent him. It was only two words.

**You’re flustered.**

Ripper scowled and flipped him off.

“I am _not_.” He said, venomously. “Just trying to be a good host. What’s so wrong with that, eh?”

Randall’s smile widened and Ripper glared, but couldn’t bring himself to really be annoyed with him. He got another text.

**Then I will accept your tea.**

The words read as sarcastically stilted as Ripper can imagine they would be from Randall’s mouth and he snorts before he sits up and starts to reach for his discarded boxers to put on, to be at least a bit decent when he stands, again.

He spies the discarded strips of torn fabric that had once been Randall’s shirt and winces. Oh. Right.

“Oh, bloody… sorry about your shirt, mate. I’ll give you one of mine to wear home, yeah? Didn’t mean to…”

Well, actually, he had meant to. Just didn’t think about the moments after. Randall made that breathy sound that was his laugh and sat up, too. He was a bit more of a mess than Ripper was, dark hair mussed and covered in a patchwork of love bites, hickies, and the slick left from the lube. It sent a strange, little thrill to see such a sharp man so completely undone by him and he has to turn his head and think of cricket before he can start stirring down south, again.

“I need a piss and then I’ll start the tea. Bathroom’s all yours, after me, if you want to… clean up.” Ripper said, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Randall nodded in affirmation of Ripper’s offer and picked up his phone, again. He typed out a message but when Ripper’s phone didn’t go off, he realized it wasn’t for him and awkwardly lumbered off to the loo, trying not to think too much about who he’d be texting.

His sister, maybe? He hadn’t stopped to think if Randall had a roommate or summat. Why would he? It didn’t really matter to him one way or the other and the fact that his was preoccupied by the thought _now_ annoyed him.

He stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, and slipped off to the kitchen without another word, leaving Randall to his privacy while he went to start the tea. The tea that was finished by the time that Randall did make a reappearance, dressed back up in his jeans. Ripper grinned, in spite of himself, at the sight of him taking a seat at his little, rickety table and pushed a cup of tea and the sugar bowl in his direction.

“Here, mate.” He said, taking a sip from his own.

Randall nodded his appreciation, reaching for his cup. The tape on his arm glinted in the light and caught Ripper’s attention, again.

He wasn’t going to ask about it. He really wasn’t. But no one has a filter after one in the morning and the words come tumbling out from his mouth before he can stop them.

“What, you’ve got a naughty word on there or something?” He asked, gesturing with his teacup at Randall’s arm.

Randall froze, looking up at him with wide eyes. He looked surprised. So much so, that Ripper nearly regretted asking… but then Randall relaxed and smiled, softly,  nodding once.

Ripper hadn’t been expecting that. He’d been mostly kidding.

“Bit old to be worried about that, aren’t you?”

His phone buzzed with another message.

**I work with kids, remember? I don’t want to have to teach them the sign for that.**

Ripper barked out a laugh at that, amused by the thought and raising his hands to concede to the point… but his stomach still twists the way that it always does when someone discusses their words. And it’s even stranger when he starts to try and guess what it might say - or what someone might be swearing at Randall the first time they meet.

“Fair enough.” He said, evenly, taking another sip of his tea.

His phone buzzed.

**You hide yours too?**

Ripper’s insides suddenly felt like ice.

He shifted, away from Randall, setting his cup down. His throat felt tight.

He’d been asking for this, really, by being the one to bring it up. He’d opened the door and of course Randall had _seen_ the blank spot on his arm and was curious. He wouldn’t be the first person to ask about it, just the most recent, and Ripper scowled into his tea.

“Haven’t got any.” He muttered, shortly, hoping that his tone would halt any further conversation on that subject.

He’d been having such a pleasant night, what did he have to go and ruin it for?

His hope that Randall would let it drop was short lived and Ripper was so intent on his anger that he didn’t notice that Randall had risen, at first, until he was suddenly standing right next to him and brushing his fingers against his blank arm. Curious.

Ripper pushed him back. Harder than he meant to, and Randall stumbled back into the counter, looking surprised and then alarmed at the look in Ripper’s eyes.

“What the fuck?” Ripper asked, glaring. “What do you think this is, a fucking sideshow?”

Randall only blinked at him, regret and remorse darkening his expression, but not enough to placate Ripper. What the fuck had he been thinking? _Why_ did he think he could have a normal night with a seemingly nice bloke?

Randall took a tentative step toward him, arm outstretched like he was going to try and comfort him. Ripper stepped back.

“I’ve got a headache.” He announced, firmly, and only because it sounded nicer than “get the fuck out”. “I think maybe you should go, actually.”

Randall nodded. And, to his credit, didn’t look annoyed that he was being kicked out. He made a funny little gesture - BSL, again, which Ripper didn’t know any more now than he did the first time he met Randall - and backed off like a puppy who’d just been kicked. He started for his phone, pushing it into his pocket, and then went for his shoes.

He seemed about to step outside, sans shirt, before Ripper remembered that he’d torn Randall’s to shreds and looked around, panicked. He did want Randall away from him, now, but he couldn’t send him out into the cold, like that. The remorse that was already needling in the back of his mind for going off on him like this wouldn’t allow it.

“Wait.” He said.

He darted back into his bedroom and yanked the first shirt off of the hanger before he darting back to Randall, and tossing it at him.

Randall took it without meeting Ripper’s gaze and pulled it on. It was a bit big on him but would do the trick and Ripper looked away, again, though he didn’t miss the little wave that Randall gave him before stepping out of the flat.

The air where a “goodbye” should have been hung heavily. Regret already coated Ripper’s tongue and he rubbed at his face before picking up Randall’s mostly untouched tea and throwing the whole thing into the sink. It was dumb luck that it didn’t shatter and he stomped off into the living room, throwing himself down onto the couch and swearing. Loudly.

What was wrong with him?

‘Course Randall was curious about it. Everyone was. And he’d started the conversation, hadn’t he? It was fine for him to know about Randall’s, but not fine for the lad to ask questions back?

...Why did he have to go and touch him?

Exhaling sharply, Ripper stared up at the ceiling until he started to doze off on his own couch, not even stirring when his phone went off. He wouldn’t see the two-word message from Randall until the next morning.

 

**I’m sorry.**


	6. Silence is Better Than Unmeaning Words

Ripper didn’t text Randall back.

Despite all appearances, it wasn’t an intentional slight. When he’d woken up the next morning, with a stiff back thanks to sleeping on the couch and a gritty feeling in his mouth, the first thing he’d felt was guilty for having kicked Randall out moments after telling him he could stay. And for what? Asking a question? Getting curious and touching him? But no matter how guilty Ripper felt, or how much he wanted to see him again - a bizarre desire, he was sure - he couldn’t think of the right words to send back to Randall, the ones that would explain everything and fix it, so he just never sent anything.

It wasn’t all he had to think about, of course, and he took what little comfort he could in not being _that_ pathetic. There were other things going on - important things, more pressing than fixing the hurt feelings of a one-night-stand that had gone sour. Finding a new job, for one, though that was proving to be a challenge. Even in the seedy places he hung out, at, it was difficult to find under-the-table work and not-quite-legal scenarios where he could do the work, get paid all in cash, and never leave a paper trail.

He couldn’t remember how he’d been lucky enough to land the first job, with as hard as it was to get a feel for the employer and figure out if it was safe to even _suggest_ the idea. The last thing he needed was someone sending the rozzers after him when he was trying so hard to keep a low profile and stay off of his father’s radar. But his funds were starting to dip so low that he was considering risking it. Surely, his father wasn’t searching out far enough to figure out that Ripper was bussing tables at a local, dingy restaurant? But the idea of seeing him made him so nauseated that he pushed the idea back far into the back of his mind, for reconsideration when he actually _did_ run out of money.

Work wasn’t the only issue. Philip and Dee had been talking non-stop about the wedding and now that Ripper had agreed to be his “best man” and had officially become part of the wedding, he’d somehow been swept up into all the planning. He wasn’t sure why he ever thought this would be simple: simplifying his job as the best man, he figured he’d write some kind of soppy speech and the “bachelor” party would be a snap - just do what they always did, but don’t bring Dee along this time. As it turned out, he was the only one thinking in simple terms. Any time he hung around them, now, he was bombarded with questions about napkin colours and seating arrangements, and potential venues, and cake flavours. Weddings were a huge deal; in this life, you only had _one_. One soulmate. One chance at perfect happiness.

Unless, of course, you were Ripper. Then you had nothing.

Those were the kind of bitter thoughts he was trying hard not to spread around to the happy couple that was making his every waking moment exhausting. As much as he hated weddings, he loved the two of them as best he could, and figured it was an unspoken rule in the “best man” handbook not to make things awkward by shouting that you didn’t bloody _care_ what napkin colour they settled on, and neither would anyone else.

But, as far as problems went, at least they were manageable. He could actively, actually _do_ something about them. Find a solution, carve out a better path through life. He was on a course and maybe it was just a rut at this point, but at least he could move.

Other problems weren’t that easy.

Since the tryst with Randall, Ripper hadn’t been feeling very much like having a go with anyone else. He still went to the pub with his friends, sure, but he never tried to meet anyone and brushed off anyone who tried to meet him.

And, even though he had yet to text him back, he still kept hoping he’d see Randall. He didn’t. Not the day after, not two days after that, and not three days after that. Nearly a week and nothing. Part of him wondered if he’d hallucinated the whole thing. And if he had, maybe that explained why someone so inconsequential had gotten so far under his skin. He couldn’t entertain the idea of a lay. Not with strangers, and not even with _Ethan_ , who had gotten pretty persistent in the last day or two, hoping that the casual tryst would bring some good humour back out of Ripper.

But, he eventually stopped trying.

They all did.

Not in a shocking, “we wash our hands of this” way. But, slowly, they stopped trying to needle Ripper out of his funk. Just let him be grumpy and bitter and hateful and smiled through it like they had no choice when Ripper really wished one of them would just punch him in the face and tell him to get his mind right like they would have just a year ago.

And so Ripper, who had no job, no money, no _sex_ , and the feeling that he was being tolerated by his friends but not _liked_ , was fit to explode.

And then, after eight days of radio silence, Randall texted him.

Ripper had been sitting at home, too skint to even consider going out somewhere. He was existing purely on fumes, with what money had left being held in case of emergency. That was his “get the fuck outta dodge” stash, with enough cash for a plane ticket or train fare and his passport should Ronald start to circle in on him like a shark smelling blood in the water. With no money, and what was starting to feel like depression, he’d been lounging on the couch and watching something stupid on the telly when his phone buzzed on the table.

He didn’t reach for it, at first. Assuming it was Philip or E or Tom, or Dee and that they were oh-so worried or falling back into their habit of inviting him out every ten minutes. But then his phone buzzed a second time.

And then a third.

The fourth time, it nearly fell off the table. And Ripper swore, loudly but finally reached out to snatch it up and unlock the cracked screen, glaring at the texts… and then blanching when he realized it wasn’t any of his friends telling him off… but Randall, reaching out again.

After eight days of silence, he still tried again? That made Ripper feel weird. Not necessarily in a bad way, and he slowly read the four texts.

**Hey. I know you’re probably still mad at me, but I just wanted to say sorry again.**

He scrolled down.

**That was really shitty of me and invasive and rude.**

Scroll.

**And you probably don’t want to see me again, but I’d really like to apologize in person.**

Scroll.

**Uh, even though I’d only be able to text you my apology. Like this.**

His phone buzzed again before he could even finish reading the last text, and he scrolled down eagerly, much more excited than he should be about this.

**I’m an idiot. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Sorry.**

Ripper knew that his customary response to this would be to do just as Randall asked. Forget that he said anything, never approach the subject again, and just brood over it whenever he felt like feeling like shite. But… he didn’t want to do that, this time. He didn’t address the apology, or Randall calling himself an idiot, but he did ask for an address.

He was up and pulling on his boots before his phone went off, giving him a direction.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes later, Ripper was standing in the foyer of one of those nicer buildings where you had to be buzzed in through the locked door to get up to the flats. It wasn’t like his, where you could take the stairs directly to the front door, and Ripper felt weirdly out of place. Luckily, he didn’t have to stand there long. He’d hardly finished pressing the button to “R. Evans” place before the door buzzed and he could pull it open. He took the stairs two at a time, up two flights, and knocked on Randall’s door.

It was open in an instant.

Randall’s smile at the sight of him was so bright it nearly bloody burned Ripper’s retinas, and he’d been about to complain that he should have brought sunglasses when it faltered, slipping from delight to guilty and remorseful so fast that Ripper’s hands twitched at his sides, and he had to actively resist the impulse to pull Randall into a hug.

He’d never been that familiar with him. Not even while having sex. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

His expression must have been odd, because Randall chewed nervously on his bottom lip before stepping out of the way, silently inviting him in. Ripper stepped past and into the flat with what he hoped was a carefully schooled expression, his gaze darting around the little space with curiosity.

It was so… neat, here. Tidy. Extremely so. Ripper looks around, surprised to find that every surface gleams as bright as Randall’s smile had. Carefully organized and properly looked after. Ripper shot him a look, suddenly wondering what Randall had thought of his place. His flat wasn’t disgusting by any means, per se, but it wasn’t half as nice as Randall’s was.

It seemed unnaturally quiet here, too, with the silence between them. But a few seconds of standing there was enough to make him realize that it wasn’t _silent_. There was soft music playing from the stereo. Too quiet for Ripper to make out the lyrics or guess which genre Randall was into, but it was enough to make the atmosphere less… tense. Not entirely diffused, but easier to cope with.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly.

Randall reached out, holding his hand out expectantly and Ripper stared at him like an idiot for three minutes before it clicked in his head and he realized that Randall was just asking to take his jacket. Ripper shrugged out of it, slowly, and handed it over, watching as Randall hung it up and Ripper kicked out of his boots, figuring that was the polite thing to do.

“I don’t usually…” Ripper started to say, feeling the need to fill in the silence by telling him that he never went back to someone else’s place, but he trailed off when he realized that he probably didn’t need to tell Randall that and switched tactics. “I uh… look, about the other night…”

He turned to look where Randall was hanging up his jacket and was startled to find that he had already moved closer, his expression both expectant and contrite, waiting for Ripper to finish. Or, maybe just unable to interrupt even if he wanted to. Ripper’s own words faltered and he just ended up shrugging and gesturing in a vague way that might have been a “what-can-you-do?” sort of thing or it could have been an “I’m-an-eternal-fuck-up-who-can’t-communicate” indication.

Randall fished his phone from his pocket and Ripper’s hand went to his own, automatically, just a few seconds before it went off.

**I really am sorry. That was rude of me. I don’t always use my fucking head.**

Ripper snorted when he realized that this was the first time he’d “read” Randall swearing. He didn’t seem like the type and it was just as funny to read it in his language, now, than it would have been to hear it unexpectedly from his lips. But that was the only part that had any humour to it. Randall looked so...upset. Genuinely remorseful, not just spouting the half-hearted “oh, sorry” that Ripper usually got from people who questioned him about his lack-of-mark beyond the point of polite conversation.

“Uh…”

Ripper’s not particularly eloquent. Doesn’t ever really care to be. He could talk back. Could tell him that it was fine, explain his reaction maybe, or apologize for how badly he’d handled the innocent curiosity…

But he doesn’t want to.

The silence stretched and Randall was starting to look more and more dire and it was the increasingly darkening expression on the boy’s face that made Ripper’s snap decision. He moved forward, closing the space between them, and reached out to catch Randall by the collar of his shirt, pulling him up into a kiss.

Ripper’s apology would have even fewer words than anyone was expecting, but Randall didn’t seem to mind. He practically _melted_ with relief in Ripper’s hold and leaned against him, his arms circling Ripper before either of them were even aware that he was pulling him closer. Ripper’s tongue slid between Randall’s lips and deepened the kiss, enthusiastically.

This? This was _much_ easier than talking.

Randall pulled back after a minute, his cheeks flushed red and his eyes dazed. His lips parted, and his expression shifted halfway between desire and the second wave of guilt. And Ripper, who hated guilt, apologies, and feelings more than anything else in the world, shook his head before Randall could start to try and find a way to apologize for _that_ too.

“Let’s just forget it, yeah?” He asked, drawing him in closer again. “If you want. We can pretend that it never happened, and get back to the good part.”

Randall tilted his head as if to ask if he was sure. Ripper grinned and tilted his head forward, licking and kissing at Randall’s neck, silently confirming that he _was_ sure. And Randall’s hands at his belt made it clear that he wasn’t necessarily opposed to forgetting the tension that had been left between them, if only for long enough to turn it into a much more pleasant feeling.

Randall pushed him back, but only to lead him in the direction of a closed door that Ripper assumed was Randall’s bedroom and the tightening of his trousers was confirmation that he’d fixed at least two of his problems, for now.

If he was being honest with himself, this was what he’d come over for. He’d been anticipating this ending. And before he could contemplate if that made him an arsehole, Randall was doing something with his tongue that burned up all of his thoughts in a display of fireworks.

 

* * *

 

Randall was shifting away from him almost before Ripper had fully come back down from the heights of cloud-nine, skittering across his previously well-made bed to one side, so quickly that Ripper, again, thought that he might have hurt him or done _something_ that he hadn’t liked.

But, he wasn’t acting like it. No wincing, no hurt expression, or slow, aching movements. He seemed just as languid and happy as Ripper felt in the post-orgasm haze… but he didn’t seem to want to be touched and that put a bit of a damper on the pleasant feelings. Did he do this with everyone or was he just afraid of touching Ripper longer than he needed to?

Ripper reached out, experimentally, resting his hand on Randall’s hip. Randall flinched, slightly, as though taken off guard… but he didn’t pull away. He closed his eyes, instead, and Ripper amused himself with the idea that if Randall was a cat, he’d be purring right now.

“D’you…” He started to say, his voice a little strained. What the fuck was he doing? “D’you mind if I touch you? After, I mean? I erm...I like…”

Is he really about to say cuddling? He never had to say this to anyone else. They either did or they didn’t, and while he preferred it when they did, he never _asked_ for it. Not then, and not now. He lets it drop and starts to shift like he’s going to pull his hand back and maybe make a break for it.

But Randall took him by surprise. As soon as Ripper started to pull away, with every intention of retreating, Randall _rolled_ across the bed. Literally tumbled like a log until he was across the bed and chest-to-chest with Ripper, grinning up at him with a “is this what you wanted?” expression on his face.

Or, maybe Ripper was just reading too much into it. Wouldn’t be hard to. It was easy to fill in the gaps when Randall couldn’t tell him otherwise.

Ripper nodded, once, and wrapped his arms around Randall. The little bit of peace he’d lost when Randall skittered away from him settled back over him like a weighted blanket and he closed his eyes.

He’d quite like a nap before he went. But before he could tell Randall so, he was already passed out.


	7. In the Silence Between

The second tryst with Randall seemed to have opened a door that Ripper had never even known was there to be opened. Though Ripper hadn’t stayed long after waking up from his hour-long nap, insisting that he had to go despite it being late and cold out if only because he _never_ stayed over with anyone, there was a change in the dynamic. An uncharted territory that was suddenly being charted and Ripper wasn’t sure if he was pleased or nauseated.

Randall was _texting_ him.

Ripper, as a general rule, didn’t text. He received texts, but rarely responded to them. If his mates were making plans, it was known that Ripper would either show up or he wouldn’t, and they should plan for either outcome. Hell, even when Randall had been texting to _apologize_ for their first one-night-stand-gone-wrong, he hadn’t had it in him to respond.

He was somewhat soothed by the fact that when Randall first started texting him, it was just to make plans. Whose place were they meeting up at, for the next time, and Ripper didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He always showed up or he would be expecting company and Randall caught onto that pattern quickly.

But, a few weeks into their hookups, it…changed.

The casual texting started. Ripper still didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to make of it. Randall sending him pictures of something interesting he’d seen while out on the town, Randall sending pictures of himself in amusing situations, Randall texting him updates about what he was _doing._

When he was at work, when he was out to lunch, and how he was feeling about it. He was never put off by the lack of response. Never seemed afraid of double or triple texting.

Ripper should have been annoyed. He’d made it clear, at least to himself, that this was nothing more than a hook-up. He’d lost interest in other lays, sure, but maybe that was because none of them could do that thing with their tongue that Randall did, or maybe because he didn’t have the energy or the want for someone else when he had someone so...cheery and willing just a text away from him, but that didn’t mean he wanted a _connection_ with him. He didn’t want a relationship or...casual texting, did he?

And yet. He wasn’t annoyed. He didn’t answer but he read them. A few of them even coaxed a smile from him and put a weird, warm feeling in his chest that he attributed to heartburn and then shoved his phone away from him for an hour or so before he’d check it again and read the messages that had been sent while he was away from it.

He might have saved a picture or two that Randall sent him. But he didn’t mention it when they’d meet up, next.

And if he was a little cheerier than usual… if he was skipping out on fewer plans that his mates made during the day, but keeping away from them at night… if he was talking more and acting a little bit less sour, well his mates didn’t mention that, either.

At first.

But then his phone wouldn’t stop going off while he was out to breakfast with them.

They’d been in their usual booth, in the usual place, and Ethan was telling a story. Something wild that involved theft, a particularly dumb police officer, and some slight of hand. Ripper drifted in and out of the conversation, unable to focus on the story when his phone kept buzzing in his pocket.

Something had Randall excited. The last time Ripper had gotten this many texts in such a short period of time, Randall had met a dog in the park and had been permitted to pet it, prompting him to send Ripper two hundred photos and key-smashing texts of joy. It had been just as adorably annoying then as it was now. Ripper cringed at every “buzz”, but didn’t call attention to it.

Ethan wasn’t as considerate.

“Oi.” He said, lowering his hands from where he had been wildly gesturing the climax of his story, a frown on his face. “Who’s all hot n’ bothered after you? Missing work, are you?”

Ripper picked up a soggy chip from the center of the table, taking a bite. It was gritty and stuck to his teeth. He swallowed it down and shrugged.

“Nah, mate. Got fired weeks ago.”

Everyone stared.

“Got...fired?” Philip repeated, after a moment. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Ripper shrugged and the smile that had been put on his face by Randall’s text-spam faded, slightly. He hadn’t realized he hadn’t mentioned it. Thugh, he supposed, between his rotten mood and the fact that most of the conversation revolved around the upcoming wedding or Ethan’s latest scheme, he just hadn’t thought to mention it.

“Didn’t realize I hadn’t.” He said, taking another bite of his chip. “I’ve been looking for a new one.”

He added the last bit, hastily, at the look on their faces. And his stomach twisted. He hated when they looked after him like that - like he was a kid who needed a scolding from his mum. Just cause they were all growing up and he was still, poor markless Ripper with no love and no bloody job.

“Well, if it’s not your boss who’s texting you like that?” Dee asked, changing the subject when the silence got a bit too heavy. “You didn’t knock a girl up did you?”

Ripper choked on his chip.

“What the bloody -” He rasped out, throwing the last bite of it at Dee, who shrieked and balled up her napkin to toss it back in retaliation. “Why would you say something so evil?”

“Who’s Randall?” Ethan asked.

Ripper’s heart stuttered to a halt in his chest and there was a wild moment of panic where Ripper actually wondered if Ethan had somehow gained the ability to read minds. Maybe that was what his bloody story was leading to? But, no. When he turned his head, he realized Ethan had just stolen his phone out of his pocket and had the screen lit up. He couldn’t get past the lock, but he could drag the notifications down and read the name and a portion of the texts that Randall had been sending. Which he was doing.

Ripper punched him in the side of the head for stealing his phone and snatched it back, shoving it back into his pocket and feeling his face burning. Not because he was embarrassed that they knew Randall’s name but because private things are private. And this - _Randall_ \- isn’t something he wants to share. He’s...his. Something of his own, that he doesn’t feel he ought to have to parade about in front of these fucking arseholes, who’ll take the mickey out of him just for sleeping with the same person more than once.

“Ow!” Ethan complained, rubbing the side of his head. “It was just a question.”

“You stole my phone,” Ripper said, his expression dark. Fucking breach of privacy, innit?

“You weren’t going to tell us, otherwise.” Ethan countered.

He looked around the table, trying to garner support, but everyone else was just watching with amusement as they battled it out.

“So… who _is_ Randall?” Philip asked, carefully, ducking before Ripper could throw a glass at him or something.

Ripper slumped down in his seat, resting his hand protectively over his phone like he was guarding Randall by extension.

“A friend.” He muttered.

“Bullshit,” Thomas said, lightly. “We’re your only friends. No one else can put up with you.”

He had a point. It was a harsh point, but a point all the same. But Ripper only shrugged.

“You don’t know my whole bloody life, do you?” He asked, gruffly.

He didn’t feel bad about saying it. Cause, honestly, it might not be a lie. Randall _was_ a friend of sorts. Someone he slept with, sure, but he could say the same about Ethan in that regard. Or, at least, he could have a few months ago.

“I know you don’t give out your number,” Ethan said, darkly.

Ripper grunted.

“Don’t some of you have jobs to get to?” He asked, a little bit more sharply than he needed to.

“Oh, shit. It’s late.” Phil said, startled by the reminder. He jumped up from his seat, catching Dee before he could knock her down the floor. “Gotta go - but don’t think this is over, mate! You know how we feel about secrets!”

“It’s fine unless it’s not yours?” Ripper asked, darkly, but Philip only grinned in his direction.

“Exactly. See you lot later.”

They all started to their feet, stretching and grabbing coats. Throwing cash onto the table to cover the bill. Ripper was a bit slower than the rest of them since he didn’t really _have_ anywhere to go after this. He took his time pulling his jacket on and didn’t realize that Thomas had stopped a few paces to the left and was waiting for him, staring with an unreadable expression on his face.

“...Yeah?” Ripper asked when he finally did notice.

“Uh…” Thomas said, humming as he zipped up his jacket. “The auto-shop I work at needs some extra hands. You uh, know much about cars? I mean, besides hot-wiring them?”

Ripper blinked.

“Er, yeah. Fixed a few fair few in my day.”

“Great. Why don’t you come with me? Swing by for a bit, chat with the boss… he might be willing to work with your situation.”

Ripper tilted his head. He wasn’t...aware that Thomas knew that he did under-the-table work, only. He didn’t remember ever mentioning it, but he was beyond grateful that Thomas _did_ seem to know, anyway. He really was low on money.

“Yeah? You think so?”

“I do,” Thomas said, nodding. “But… you gotta promise to be on your game, mate. None of that half-arsing shite you do when you’re pissy, if I’m going to go out on a limb for you like this.”

That stung a bit. But no more than Ripper deserved. So, he nodded.

“Of course, mate.”

“Good.”

Thomas nodded his head, gesturing for Ripper to walk beside him. They stepped out of the little chip shoppe and into the brisk, morning air. Thomas didn’t work particularly far from where they ate - none of them did - and so Ripper was anticipating a short and silent walk.

He was wrong.  

“I get it, you know,” Thomas said, after a few minutes.

“Get what?”

“The… not wanting to share. Wanting to keep it private.”

Ripper just stared at him. Blankly. Not catching what Thomas meant by that.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Look… I know… I know you think that I ran off with Emily and eloped because I didn’t want to have to not invite you to a wedding. But, that’s not the thing of it. I just… we share a lot, don’t we? The lot of us. We spend nearly every day together. We eat together, we party together, we drink and fight and most of us have shagged one or more of the others at least once. But Emily… she was something different. Something that was just mine. That’s why it took me so long to bring her around. I didn’t want to share her. I just wanted that piece of my life to be mine.”

Ripper didn’t say anything. He just stared ahead, absorbing what he’d just been told. Thomas was perceptive - more so than Ripper had ever given him credit for. Ripper had no idea that Tom _knew_ that Ripper thought he’d run off to keep from having to cut Ripper out. And he had no idea that Thomas had any idea how he felt about Randall.

“S’not quite the same,” Ripper said, after a minute, because he wasn’t sure what else there was to say. It was nice that Thomas wasn’t trying to pry… but Ripper knew that this wasn’t the same. Thomas had found his other. The only person in the world who was going to click with him the way that they did. A whole other side to his soul.

Randall wasn’t… that. He was something, sure. Something bright. Something soft and warm and unapologetically cheery, but he wasn’t Ripper’s. Not in the way that Emily was Thomas’.

“Maybe not. But you’re still entitled to keep somethings for yourself.” Thomas agreed, ever amicable.

And that was that for conversation.

Ripper pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the messages that Randall had flooded him with, curious to see what had made him so chatty.

It wasn’t a dog, this time. But he’d been having ice cream with his sister, for breakfast, and apparently had discovered a new flavour that rocked his bloody world. And Ripper snorted at the spam of pictures and Randall’s rambling texts that valiantly tried to explain what the flavour tasted like and practically demanding that Ripper come over right that instant and try it. It was… sweet. Not the ice cream, but the boy texting him. And Ripper wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or scowl.

No, Randall wasn’t his. And he fucking cursed the bloke who was going to have forever with him.

 

* * *

 

Going to Thomas’ work proved to be one of the better ideas he’d had in weeks. Ripper had never, personally, thought of what sort of bloke Thomas was normally - what he acted like when he wasn’t around the lot of them, but he’d managed to make quite the name for himself at the auto shop. So much so that the owner of the place had readily agreed to Ripper’s particular requirements to work, adamant that they’d always have a place for him as long as he worked as well as Thomas did.

Which meant he had a bar to live up to. But that was better than having nothing at all, so Ripper agreed sincerely and even stuck around to help with a few projects before being shooed off to start his new job the next day and give the boss time to shift things around to accommodate him.

Things were actually looking up for him. He couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot as he walked the few blocks back away from Thomas’ work - sorry, _his_ work - heading back toward both the chip shoppe and his own flat, which was a bit further than that. He could enjoy his last day of freedom, now… maybe go home and sleep a little since he had fuck all else to do. Maybe he could find a movie or something on the telly. Just laze about.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. And his heart thumped unevenly, in the way it had started to when he was anticipating a text from Randall. He pulled his phone out and wasn’t disappointed to see who was lighting up his screen.

It wasn’t a picture, this time. Or a remark upon his day. It was just two words.

**Come over?**

Ripper stopped walking, abruptly, earning himself a glare from someone who’d been walking behind him and had nearly run right into him, but Ripper just flipped them off and stepped to the side, staring at the message on his screen.

...Come over?

It’s day, innit? They’re a casual affair, sure. But casual as in...during the day? Since when?

Another thought occurred to him, and it wasn’t one he liked. What if...well, what if Randall hadn’t meant to text him that? What if he’d been meaning to text that to a friend or even another lay - bloody fuck, did he have other lays? They didn’t exactly talk about that while Ripper was on top of him - and had accidentally rung up Ripper, instead? He’d look like an idiot if he showed up and that prickling feeling of rejection was already inching up his skin at the imagined look on Randall’s face.

No.

No, he should just ignore it. Save them both the embarrassment.

Then his phone buzzed again. Just one word, this time.

**Please?**

What were the odds that he was texting the wrong person twice? Unlikely, he knew… but he was still indecisive. If he kept on walking, he’d end up at his place. But if he crossed the street and took a left, he’d be on the way to Randall’s. Which was the better option?

 

* * *

 

He was at Randall’s place almost before he could fully rationalize the decision to move in that direction, something that made his stomach twist up like his intestines had been tied up into a knot. But he reached out and pressed the buzzer anyway.

It took half a minute for him to get ringed in. And Randall already had his door open before Ripper had even made it all the way up the stairs. Ripper looked carefully, waiting to see if Randall’s face fell or if he looked otherwise displeased to see who was standing in his hall… but he didn’t. In fact, he smiled so brightly that Ripper couldn’t feel anything but stupid for thinking that he hadn’t wanted to see him.

Randall’s legs tensed like he wanted to throw himself at Ripper, but he didn't. He just stepped to the side, in a familiar way, letting Ripper step in and kick off his shoes.

“What’s the emergency?” Ripper asked, turning to look at Randall.

He’s never really seen him in the daytime. He doesn’t suppose that the natural light pouring in the through the windows actually makes him look different… but it _feels_ different to be standing there. Randall looks softer. It’s still early, not even noon, and he traded the outfit he’d been wearing in the pictures he’d sent to Ripper for a pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, his dark, messy hair swept back from his face and that too-bright smile curling his lips.

He makes a gesture with his hands, one that is completely lost on Ripper. But before he can remind him of that, Randall takes off. He darts from the living room to the kitchen and opens the freezer, pulling out two containers of ice cream.

He holds them up like trophies, his smile somehow widening.

“...You brought me over for ice cream?”

Randall nodded, eagerly. He set both pint-sized containers on the counter and peeled the lid back from one of them. The contents inside was a mix of pink and blue, and Randall pulled a spoon from the drawer, scooping out a bit and holding it out to Ripper with an insistent gaze.

“You brought me over for _ice cream_ ,” Ripper said again, unsure if he wanted to laugh or be irritated. “You know, I had plans.”

Randall raised his eyebrows. He shook the spoon, a little, and made a show of holding his arm up with his other hand like he was getting tired after two minutes of holding the spoon.

Ripper rolled his eyes but leaned forward to take a bite.

It was cold and sweet against his tongue. Tasting more like sugar than anything else. There were hard bits in it, too, and Ripper bit down on one… only to make a face when it started bloody _popping_ on his tongue.

“What _is_ that?” He asked, as soon as he swallowed.

He picked up the container and looked over the label. Cotton Candy with cotton candy flavoured pop-rocks.

“I can feel my teeth rotting.” He said, wrinkling his nose. “That’s a lot of bloody sugar, mate.”

Randall made another face at him and took a bite of the ice cream for himself. Ripper watched with fascination as he sucked the sugar-flavoured cream off of the spoon and grinned at the sheer delight in his expression.

“You’re insane,” Ripper informed him.

Randall just shrugged and picked his phone up from the counter to text him.

**You’re the one who apparently canceled plans to come eat ice cream with me.**

Ripper rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have come over if I’d known that was what you were going to have me do.”

Another text.

**Yes, you would have.**

His phone buzzed again before he could respond to that.

**Would it make you happy if I let you lick the ice cream off of me?**

Ripper barked out a laugh and leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area, and pursed his lips into a thoughtful expression.

“I guess that depends on where I’m licking it off.”

Randall turned red. That blush was slowly becoming Ripper’s favourite shade of the colour, and that thought unsettled him. But Randall offered him another bite of ice cream before he could think too deeply about it. And Ripper took it, despite thinking that it’s too sweet for his liking, because it was offered.

And then he reached across the counter, catching Randall by the back of his neck, and pulling him so that they were both bent across the counter to meet in a kiss.

Randall’s mouth is cold and sweet, like the ice cream. And there’s just a bit of fizz when Ripper’s tongue sweeps through his mouth and catches on pop rocks, making them both laugh.

Randall pulls back, first, and pulls another spoon from the drawer, offering the unopened pint to Ripper, who took it without complaint and followed his lead to settle down onto the couch.

“You’re pretty alright to be around.” Ripper said, unexpectedly, as they dug into their ice cream, still thinking back to that morning with his mates. “No forced conversation. No prying. No stupid questions about how I’m doing or long, pointless stories.”

Randall made that breathy, laughing sound and rolled his eyes at Ripper’s attempt at a compliment. It was a piss-poor one...but Ripper meant it. As much as he liked his friends - and he did, they were the family that he never had - they weren’t always the most...considerate. Most of them probably thought he didn’t have any feelings, and he was happy to let them think that, just as he was happy to let Randall move around him in his gentle way.

Randall took another bite of ice cream. And Ripper kissed him again, thoroughly enjoying how cold his mouth is.

Not the worst way to spend his last day off, he thinks. Here, with Randall, with nothing but peace and easy companionship in the silence between them.


	8. In Silence Sealed

Ripper’s shoulders and neck were pressed uncomfortably against the arm of the couch, pinching a nerve, but he didn’t dare move. Shifting, even just enough to soothe some of the pain, might mean disturbing Randall, who was lying on top of him, half-asleep in a post-orgasm haze with cheeks still flushed pink from exertion and a little, sleepy smile on his face that hadn’t quite yet faded.

Moving him would be like trying to shove a sleeping puppy off of his lap and onto the floor.

So, of course, his bloody phone buzzed on the ottoman.

Randall didn’t even flinch at the sound, though is lips did quirk into an unhappy frown when Ripper pulled away the hand that had been idly stroking through his dark hair and reached over to grab his phone, completely on instinct since he was now used to grabbing it whenever it went off, anticipating a message from Randall, and he winced when he got a glimpse of the time. He’d been there a lot longer than he planned to be. Fuck. How did the day get away from him?

Randall exhaled sharply through his nose when Ripper hadn’t resumed petting him. The sound was loud and irritable in the quiet and Ripper had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Oh, yeah. That was how.

He looked back down at his phone, still trying to be as still as possible. It was a message from Philip and Ripper sighed. He’d been expecting something like this since the events of that morning when Ethan had nicked his bloody phone. As a general rule, they didn’t keep secrets from each other. And Ripper especially had never hesitated to divulge information about a lay. So, his hesitancy this time around had clearly raised some concerns. Hence the message that he was blearily blinking at.

**BOYS NIGHT!!!**

And then, directly underneath the first message.

**You’re coming even if we have to track you down and drag you out ourselves.**

Ripper grimaced. A few hours ago, he might have welcomed this message - would have been _pleased_ to get the invitation, in light of the way that things were looking up for him. But… with Randall lying on top of him, his eyes closed again and breathing evening out as he fell back into that sweet spot between sleep and wakefulness, all Ripper wanted to do was chuck his phone away.

But then it went off, again. It buzzed loudly as both Ethan and Thomas texted him at the same time - also cajoling him into agreeing into a night out - and Randall twitched at the sound, since Ripper had been holding his phone close to his head, this time. He sat upright and shot Ripper an annoyed look before retreating away from him, climbing over him to curl up in the corner of the couch, settling between Ripper’s legs and bloody pouting.

“Oi, don’t be a baby,” Ripper called after him, miffed now that he was cold and lighter for the lack of Randall’s solid weight on top of him. “Come back here.”

Randall just stretched and yawned, his gaze falling onto Ripper’s phone and a curious expression replacing his annoyed one.

“Oh,” Ripper said, catching the unasked question quickly. “It’s just some mates of mine.”

He shrugged, too, and said nothing more on the subject. He’d never been one to offer many details about anything - that sort of thing happens when you’re raised to keep secrets, he supposes - and, his penchant for keeping all of his secrets close to his chest aside, he has to admit that it’d feel a bit odd to tell him, anyway. Weird to tell him about his plans and not… invite him to come along.

Because part of him does want to. Invite him. He’s still sure that he doesn’t want to introduce him to his mates, but that doesn’t mean that he’s entirely against the idea of them every hanging out. He thinks they’d like him, if they got to know him. If they got to meet him and understand him the way Ripper thought he does. But that’s too much to ask of someone that he’s just...sleeping with. It’s an unsettling feeling to even _want_ it and not one that Ripper wanted to worry about unpacking, so he just shrugged again without really knowing why.

Randall nodded and started to gesture at him. His sleep-addled brain seemed to have forgotten that Ripper didn’t understand BSL, or maybe he just didn’t feel like reaching for his phone wherever it had ended up, but Ripper could only stare at him with confusion when he stopped signing.

“Er… what?”

Randall made a face and then a different set of motions. No longer sign language, but more like he was just trying to _mime_ whatever he was after, like that would make a difference in what Ripper could and couldn’t understand.

Ripper sat up straighter, looking around to see where Randall’s phone had ended up.

“I don’t know what you’re - where’s your phone?”

Randall didn’t point in any one direction. He just kept _gesturing_. Trying to mime it out, still, and Ripper felt a sharp stab of annoyance in his gut. If he knew that Ripper couldn’t fucking understand what those gestures meant, then why would he keep trying? Why wouldn’t he just write it out like usual? Was it really such a trial to grab his phone and text him? It’d take thirty bloody seconds, fast as he types. Bit bloody inconsiderate, innit?

“Randall, I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.” He said. “I don’t bloody speak mime.”

Randall stopped gesturing, abruptly, with the same air of hurt and annoyance about him as someone who’d speech had just been interrupted. And he climbed off of the couch in quick, jerky movements, scanning the floor for his clothes and yanking them back on, his face red and his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Oi.”

Ripper sat up, slowly, startled by this drastic turn of events. They’d just been cuddled up on the couch not fifteen minutes ago. What was with the bloody mood-swing? Just because he got a text from friends? Ripper ran his fingers through his hair and then rubbed the back of his neck, trying to undo the pinched nerve there. What was Randall’s _problem_?

“What’s wrong with you, then? Either grab your phone and tell me or piss off. I’m not interested in playing fucking charades.”

Randall stomped over the coffee table and grabbed his phone from where it had been abandoned amongst the emptied ice cream containers. He typed out a message, quickly, and Ripper’s phone went off just a few seconds later.

Ripper looked down, a feeling of unease pooling in his stomach. The message was short and lacked any of the usual… touches that Ripper had started to associate with him. No emojis, no smiley faces. Even the punctuation was different. Colder, somehow, like Randall had just shouted at him.

**I have a headache. You should probably take off.**

For a second, all Ripper could feel was confused and unexpectedly hurt. But then he just smiled sourly as he remembered that he’d said the exact same thing to Randall, the first night, after he’d been unintentionally upset by his questions about his mark. Swallowing hard against the anger and slight humiliation at being told to “fuck off” though not in so many words, he only nodded once and started grabbing his own clothes, dressing quickly and shoving his phone into his pocket so he wouldn’t have to keep seeing the message.

It was bloody whatever, right? If Randall wanted to be a fucking child about whatever his problem was, it wasn’t Ripper’s job to fix it was it? Randall’s just a lay. He can save the fucking theatrics for whoever has to deal with it.

Ripper stomped over to the counter and grabbed his jacket off of it.

“See you around, then.” He muttered, glancing over at Randall.

Randall didn’t give him his usual cheery wave goodbye. He didn’t even smile. He just stood there, looking miserable. Hovering like he was expecting Ripper to try and force him to say whatever it was that was upsetting him or like he wanted to be comforted or some stupid shit like that.

Ripper’s throat suddenly felt tight at the mental image of himself, throwing his jacket back off, and crossing the room to do just that. To ask him what was wrong - apologize for whatever he did to set him off, even if he couldn’t think of a fucking thing he could have done to have warranted this reaction.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he steps out the door and slams it behind him. Not glancing back once as he stormed down the steps, taking them two at a time, and only pausing long enough to text Philip back and assure him that he would be meeting them for drinks in just an hour’s time - just long enough for him to grab a shower and get dressed.

After all of that, he could use a drink or ten.

 

* * *

 

They met up at the usual spot and, as promised, neither Dee or Emily were in attendance, though Ripper had been assured that they weren’t feeling left out and were currently pouring over wedding dress options. Cheered that he wasn’t going to be yelled at by anyone else in the day, Ripper just grinned as widely as he was able and took the shots that were offered to him, enjoying the burn on the way down and the layer of fuzziness it put between him and reality.

 For the most part, it’d been a pleasant evening. Ripper’d been surprised when they’d started exchanging old stories - events and occasions they’d all been there for, but talked about anyway - instead of jumping on him about his mystery-lay. And they roared with laughter over past misdeeds and spilled drinks all over themselves pushing and shoving each other at the table. It was just… good and fun.

At least, until it wasn’t.

Ripper should have guessed they weren’t just going to let it go… but one could bloody hope, yeah?

Ethan broke, first. Ripper might’ve expected that. He’d been mates the longest with him - known him the longest and had more dalliances with him than with any of the others. 

“So,” Ethan said, in the silence that followed the laughter at a stupid joke. “You gonna tell us about him, mate, or do we have to torture it out of you?”

Ripper’s smile faded. And he took another sip of his lager.

“Dunno what you mean.”

“Oh, come off it,” Philip said, groaning. “No secrets, remember?” 

“Well…” Thomas said, quietly, glancing over at Ripper, who was reminded suddenly that Thomas had already shown understanding to him not wanting to share. “We all have a few. No need to pressure him if he doesn’t want to say.”

“Piss off,” Ethan said, shoving Thomas. “Ripper’s never been scared to tell us about a lay, before. What’s wrong with this one, then? Something so bad you think we’ll judge you, eh?" 

Ripper stiffened.

“No.” He snapped, balling up a napkin and tossing it at Ethan for lack of anything else to throw. “It’s not like that. He’s just - there’s nothing to tell, alright? Met him at a bar, we shagged a few times, and that’s that.”

“Not really that, though?” Philip said, shaking his head. “Not even close. You never go for anyone more than once. ‘Cept maybe Ethan, but that’s...whatever that is.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ripper said, firmly. “It doesn’t bloody matter, I think it’s over now anyway.”

“You broke it off with him, did you?” Thomas asked, looking surprised. “But you seemed so - I mean, this morning… the way you smiled when you got the texts… I thought…”

“You thought what?” Ripper asked, trying not to raise his voice. But the alcohol had done something to make that a bit difficult. “That I’d met the love of my life or something stupid like that? He was just a -”

“Hey, boys!”

All four of them jumped in their seats as Dee came floating in out of nowhere, jumping into Philip’s lap and nearly knocking over two drinks in the process. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, soundly, on the mouth. Philip looked dazed and Thomas was already up and out of his seat, reaching out for Emily who was hovering nearby with uncertainty writ in her expression.

“Hey…” She said, softly, letting Thomas take her into his arms. “I’m sorry - I know you said boys night, but Deirdre insisted that we come crash.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas said, his face bright in that sickening way people always looked when they were near their soul-mates.

Ripper looked away and took another drink.

“What were we talking about?” Dee asked, brightly, still settled into Philip’s lap. “Not harassing Ripper about you-know-what, I hope?”

“Course not,” Ethan said, hastily.

Ripper raised an eyebrow and Dee scowled.

“They were, weren’t they? I told you lot not to! He’s never going to share if you keep bugging him.”

“He won’t share if we don’t bug him, though.” Philip countered, but he had the grace to look ashamed in the face of Dee’s glare. “Sorry, love. We were just...you know, curious.”

Sick of being talked about like he’s not there, Ripper stood abruptly.

“I think I’m going to go have a smoke.” He said, reaching behind himself to brace against the seat he’d just been in, trying not to fall on unsteady legs. “I’ll be back.”

He pushed past the lot of them, waving off murmurs of concern, and stumbled to the front door and out into the night, getting an eerie sense of Déjà vu as he went. He’d been doing this a lot, lately, hadn’t he? Stepping out whenever things got too uncomfortable.

At least he actually had cigarettes on him, this time.

He shook one out of the pack and put it up to his mouth, lighting it and taking a deep drag. Trying not to think about what Randall might be doing, now. Trying not to remember how upset he’d looked before Ripper’d stormed out. Trying not to bloody think at all, really.

It wasn’t easy. Maybe he needed more to drink.

“Hey.”

Ripper turned his head, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Dee. She held out her hand, expectantly, and Ripper took the cigarette from his own mouth and handed it to her, shaking out another from the pack to replace it.

Dee hummed with gratitude and then blew three smoke rings at him.

“You need boy advice.” She said.

Ripper nearly inhaled his cigarette.

“...Eh, what?” He asked, turning his head sharply to look at her.

She, as always, was unphased.

“You need boy advice.” She said, again.

“They tell you that?”

“No. I could just see it in your face.”

Ripper snorted with derision and Dee smacked his arm. Hard.

“I’m serious! I’ve made that same expression over Philip a thousand times. So, go on. Spill. What happened?”

Ripper ignored her. He took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke through his nostrils. Maybe if he’d stay quiet for long enough, she’d piss off back inside and admit defeat to the rest of them.

“I’m not going back inside,” Dee said, like she could read his mind. “So you might as well just tell me.”

“You’re really fucking annoying,” Ripper said, nastily. “It’s a bloody wonder that Philip can stand to marry you.”

Silence fell heavy after his words.

Dee didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Ripper could feel how the words landed and he closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. When he opened them again, his expression was contrite.

“I’m sorry.” He said, gruffly.

Dee didn’t look at him.

“I… I didn’t mean that. I just -”

“You’re sad and bitter and alone and boo-hooing over how sad and bitter and alone you are?” Dee asked, her tone just as nasty 

Ripper recoiled. It was no less than he deserved, but still. He thought about storming off, but she continued too quickly.

“Here’s the fucking thing, asshole. You might be sad and bitter, but you’re not alone. You’ve never been alone. We’ve been here. All of us. You know, your friends? And we’ve stayed through every tantrum, everything ghosting session, every weird secret, every weird situation, every explosive meltdown. We’ve been here, we rode it out with you, and we try to help. I’m standing out here, right now, freezing my tits off because you’re moping around. You’re not alone. So quit acting like it and let us help you for once, or one day you’re going to wake up and _really_ be alone.”

She tossed her cigarette down and stomped it out, turning to storm away. She got as far as the door before Ripper spoke. Somewhat reluctantly.

“...I think we had a fight.”

Dee stopped.

“...Us? Just now? That wasn’t a fight, babe, that was a truth-bomb coming to fuck up your world.”

“No, not us,” Ripper said, grimacing. “Me and...Randall. We had a fight, I think.”

Dee stood there for a minute longer, deliberating over whether or not she was going to come back or just storm back inside as she rightfully deserved to. But, in the end, she moved back closer to him and stood in front of him, arms crossed.

“Gimme an apology for being a dick.”

“I did apologize!”

“Do it again.”

Ripper sighed.

“...I’m sorry that I’m a bloody prick. You’re right, yeah?”

“What am I right about?” She pressed.

It’s like trying to apologize to his mum. He doesn’t say so, but he only just manages to keep from rolling his eyes.

“...You’re right. I’m not alone and I should quit acting like it.”

“Good.”

Dee relaxed, slightly.

“Now. What did you fight about?”

Ripper had to actively fight against the impulse to tell her to fuck off. He did just invite her to ask him that question - and he suddenly, genuinely realizes that she was right. He’d gotten guarded with the lot of them. He’s not sure when - maybe after Thomas got married, but not he was chained into him vs. them mentality. Shit.

“...I dunno.” He said, raising his hand before Dee could start to get pissy with him again. “I really don’t. We were fine, one minute. We were on the couch -”

“Your couch or his couch?" 

Ripper blinked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. I’m setting the scene in my head."

“...His couch. We were on the couch, half-asleep. My phone went off and then -”

“How were you guys on the couch? Sitting side-by-side? Cuddling? What?”

“Why the fuck does that matter? Can I just tell you the story?”

“It matters. Tell me.” 

If Ripper rolls his eyes any harder they’re going to get bloody stuck like that and he’s nearly bitten through the end of his mostly smoked cigarette a few times, coming this bloody close to chomping off the filter.

“I was lying back on the couch, he was on top of me. And we were lying like that because I told him I wanted to watch him fuck himself on me and that was how we laid down after we were finished, is that enough details for you?”

“...Yes. Continue.”

Ripper spits out his cigarette and stomped it out.

“Anyway. My phone went off and startled him awake. And then he was - I dunno, maybe he forgot that I don’t know sign language because he was trying to sign to me and then tried to bloody mime whatever he wanted to me, which made even less sense. It’s just wild gestures that don’t mean anything and -”

“Hang on… he was… signing to you?”

Ripper opened his mouth to snap at her for interrupting, _again_ , but then closed his mouth again when he suddenly remembered that she didn’t know that Randall was - that he couldn’t -

“Er, yeah. Randall’s ah, non-verbal. He can’t talk.”

Dee blinked at him.

“He can’t… is that why you don’t want us to meet him? Because you think we’d make fun of him? Or are you just embarrassed of him?”

“No.”

Ripper snapped, his voice too loud. It echoed in the quiet and he forced himself to take a deep breath.

“No.” He said, again. “I’m not embarrassed of him. And I didn’t think you lot would make fun of him. He’s just… mine. I didn’t want to share, alright?”

“Ok.” Dee agreed, amicably. She stepped back until she was pressed up against the side of the building, staring out into the amber glow given off by the streetlights. “So, he was signing. Then what?”

“Well, he doesn’t usually sign to me. He texts me. Which is way bloody easier to understand, and so I was telling him to just write it down, but he kept trying to mime it at me. I don’t know what he’s trying to say and so I tell him that I don’t speak mime and I’m not interested in bloody playing charades - that he needs to write it down. And when he does finally grab his phone to message me, he just tells me to _leave_.”

Ripper threw his hands up, then, exhaling sharply.

“So I took off. It’s not my problem, right? We’re just sleeping together - I don’t have to figure him out or fix his attitude. But now, I….”

Feel bad, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just fell silent for a few minutes. That was more than he’d said to Dee in a while, and he didn’t like the feeling of having said too much.

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t just write down what his problem was if he wanted me to know it, so badly.” He finished, lamely.

Dee just stared at him.

“...Oh, honey.” She said, finally, after the silence had stretched to the point of driving Ripper mad. “You’re so, so stupid.”

“...Great advice, Dee. See you around.”

Ripper started to stomp off in the opposite direction, annoyed that she’d be making bloody jokes in the face of his upset, but she caught him by the arm before he could get too far and pushed him back against the wall.

“I’m _serious._ ” She said, her voice surprisingly patient. “Ripper, you obviously care about -”

“I do not.” Ripper argued, instinctively. “He’s just a -”

“A guy that you let take you home, even though you never go to a lays house? A guy that you’ve slept with more than once? A guy that you’re upset that you’ve upset?”

Ripper just grunted.

“You really don’t see what’s wrong here, do you.” Dee tsked.

“Why don’t you tell me if it’s so bloody obvious?”

“... He can’t talk.” Dee said, gently. “I can’t imagine what that must be like. I lost my voice for two days and being around the lot of you was impossible. It’s hard enough to get a word in edgewise when I can talk, but when I couldn’t? It was like being sidelined. And he has to do that every day, with everyone.”

“Yeah.” Ripper said, still not quite getting the point that she was driving too. “It sucks, I know.”

“Do you?” Dee asked, raising her eyebrows. “He can’t talk. He can’t just… tell you what the problem is.”

Ripper feels like he’s waiting for a punchline to the end of one of those long-winded, notoriously unfunny jokes. “Yeah. And?”

“Jesus, Ripper. He can’t talk! So he learned a second language - sign language, so he could communicate, only the amount of people who can understand that is slim to none, so he has to find a third way of communication. He has to put in all the effort just to have some voice in the situation.”

“I know he learned sign-language, I’ve seen him - oh.”

Ripper deflated, like someone had let all the air out of him, and he sighed sharply. What was it that he’d thought, earlier? That Randall was being inconsiderate by not grabbing his phone to write what he wanted to say? Shit.

“Aw, fuck.” He muttered.

Dee nodded wisely.

“There you are. Took you long enough.”

“So… what do I do?” Ripper asked, rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t - I can’t give him his voice back. I can’t fix that.”

“No one’s asking you to fix anything. Just… maybe, instead of expecting him to put in the work, you should meet him halfway. Put in a little effort of your own. 

“How likely is it that he’s going to want to talk to me again after I told him that I don’t speak mime?” Ripper asked, weakly.

“.... Jesus fucking Christ, Ripper.”


	9. Silence is the Great Teacher

**Ripper: Im sorey (sent at 3:30 a.m.)**

**Ripper: *sorrey (Sent at 3:32 a.m)**

**Ripper: *SORRY (Sent at 3:33 a.m)**

**Ripper: Didnt mewn to makw yiu sad (Sent at 3:40 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: Nro a mimr. Youew hOT (Sent at 4:00 a.m)**

**Ripper: Cutw buy (Sent at 4:02 a.m)**

**Ripper: *boy (Sent at 4:03 a.m)**

**Ripper: Beem drinming (Sent at 4:05 a.m)** ****  


**Ripper: Phulip sats hiiiuuu (Sent at 4:10 a.m)**

**Ripper: Ethan aais someeghfifnf mean. Ill hit hin (Sent at 4:11 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: ir is done (Sent at 4:13 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: Xand i see you tomorrow? (Sent at 4:20 a.m)**

**Ripper: Plwase? (Sent at 4:22 a.m)**

**Ripper: pLWASE (Sent at 4:23 a.m)**

**Ripper: Cany fuckn spell (Sent at 4:24 a.m)**

 

**Randall: Drink some water, Ripper. (Sent at 4:25 a.m)**

**Randall: You can come over if you’re not hungover. (Sent at 4:26 a.m)**

**Randall: You’re cranky when you’re hungover. :( (Sent at 4:27 a.m)**

**Randall: I mean you’re cranky all the time but more when you’re hungover. (Sent at 4:28 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: I CSN DRRONK WAFEE (Sent at 4:30 a.m)**

**Randall: Pics or it didn’t happen. (Sent at 4:30 a.m)**

**Ripper:** **_IMAGE ENCLOSED: SLIGHTLY BLURRY SELFIE OF RIPPER WITH A WATER BOTTLE. (_ ** **Sent at 4:31 a.m)**

**Ripper: WOTER (Sent at 4:32 a.m)**

**Randall: I am taking screenshots of all of this. (Sent at 4:34 a.m)**

**Ripper: No (Sent at 4:35 a.m)**

**Randall: Already did, hot stuff. (Sent at 4:36 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: :( (Sent at 4:37 a.m)**

**Ripper: :( (Sent at 4:37 a.m)**

**Ripper :( (Sent at 4:37 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: Look at thsoe fxking emoju. (Sent at 4:40 a.m)**

**Ripper: Yous did rhar. (Sent at 4:41 a.m)**

 

**Randall: I’m going back to bed, frowny face. Drink more water. (Sent at 4:45 a.m)**

**Ripper: Nnnn Night. (Sent at 4:47 a..m)**

 

**Ripper: We’re never speaking of this again. (Sent at 8:05 a.m)**

**Ripper: I’m serious. (Sent at 8:06 a.m)**

**Ripper: If you show those screenshots to anyone, I will end you. (Sent at 8:07 a.m)**

**Randall: :) (Sent at 8:08 a.m)**

**Ripper: I mean it. (Sent at 8:09 a.m)**

**Randall: :)))))))) (Sent at 8:10 a.m)**

 

**Ripper: Are you working today? (Sent at 8:30 a.m)**

**Randall: Nope. It’s my day off. Spending some time w/Alice, though, so you can’t come over until later. (Sent at 8:33 a.m)**

**Ripper: K.**

 

**Randall: Are you at my work??? (Sent at 10:30 a.m)**

**Ripper: No??? Why would you think that?**

**Randall: Because I can see you. You’re standing next to a girl with purple hair.**

**Ripper: YOU SAID YOU WEREN’T WORKING TODAY**

**Randall: I wasn’t! But I got called in. Work emergency.**

**Ripper: Fuck.**

 

* * *

 

“Fuck!”

Ripper swore out loud, lowering his phone and looking around for that familiar head of dark hair and wondering if it was too late to hide Dee. Randall had already seen her, but she hadn’t spotted Randall, and she never would if Ripper just happened to toss her out a window.

“What?” Dee asked, oblivious to his half-formed plans of defenestration. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ripper muttered, quickly, swallowing hard.

Right. So, he was about to get caught snooping about the place where his casual hook up worked. That’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, right? Not the worst thing that happened to anyone. Just...extremely fucking awkward.

“Ooh, look at that hottie. Do you think he’s a doctor? Do you think Philip would mind if I stare?” Dee whispered, suddenly, and Ripper didn’t even have to turn his head to know who she was talking about.

He did anyway, though, and couldn’t quite suppress the leap in his chest that his heart took at the sight of Randall. He’d seen him in a state of undress more often than not and so it was almost….strange to see him dressed up like a professional. Stranger still to see that he was _smiling_ , and not (rightfully) freaking out at the sight of his casual hookup standing in his work.

Randall came to a halt just in front of him, though his legs were still tensed like he was about to spring forward at him like he would if they were in private. He took a deep breath and Ripper had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at how much obvious effort he was putting into not leaping on him.

Randall waved, instead, grinning ear-to-ear.

And Ripper grinned too. He couldn’t help it.

Dee cleared her throat, nudging him. Hard.

“Ow!” Ripper complained, annoyed, before remembering that he should be doing the introduction right about now. “Oh. Right. Uh…. Hey, mate. This is my friend, Deirdre. Dee, this is Randall. He’s uh - he…”

Panic.

“He works here.” Ripper finished, lamely.

Randall turned and waved to her, too, before looking back at Ripper, his smile finally fading into a curious expression. Wondering what he was doing there. And honestly, Ripper was wondering the same. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

“Uh… we’re uh…”

Ripper glanced at Dee. Begging for her to help him out.

“There’s open sign-language lessons, here! Part of the language outreach program? We’re here to take part in it so Ripper can learn to apologize for being such a dick.” Dee said, brightly.

Ripper seriously reconsiders the idea where he tosses her out the window.

“...It was supposed to be a surprise.” He said, his tone slightly strangled.

Randall blinked at him. Eyes wide and lips parted, just staring at Ripper as though he’d never seen him before. Ripper shifted, uncomfortably, and was just about to turn and tell Dee that they should go when Randall leapt at him.

Ripper’s hands shot out, automatically,  catching Randall as soon as he lurched forward. For a wild second, he thought Randall was about to try and _strangle_ him. (Not that he would blame him if he tried, he had just shown up at his work, uninvited.) But, that wasn’t the case at all. Randall didn’t try to throttle him - he bloody _hugged_ him.

In public.

In front of people who could see them.

And Ripper… hugs him back.

He would have shoved anyone else away, swore at them, and straightened his jacket while looking around to make sure no one had seen. But with Randall, he can’t imagine pushing him off. So, he wraps his arms around his boy and glares daggers over his head at Dee, daring her to say anything.

She wisely kept her mouth shut.

When Randall pulled back away from him, his eyes were bright and his expression practically glowing with delight and he pulled his phone from his pocket. Ripper mirrored the action, pulling out his phone just in time to get the message from Randall.

**You know you could have just asked ME to teach you, Ripper.**

“Well...That might’ve ruined the surprise.”

**I would’ve been surprised if you asked. No one’s ever tried to learn it for me, before.**

Ripper was suddenly less certain of his decision now than he had been before. The way Randall was looking at him, like he had the sun and the moon in his hands. He’d been wanting to make up for the slight and the harsh words… but maybe he’d been a little overeager in that regard. He coughs. What was this boy bloody doing to him?

“Well… next lesson then, yeah?” Ripper suggested, turning a little red. Coughing, again, he gestured for Dee to follow him and bustled off without saying goodbye to Randall. Turning the tables in that regard, for a change.

 

* * *

 

From then on, sign-language lessons became part of the routine.

Ripper didn’t take to it, well. It wasn’t as easy as learning any of the other languages he knew; communicating only in gestures was much more difficult than he’d ever imagined it would be and between his intense dislike for trying to remember which gesture meant what and his annoyance that he didn’t pick it up right away was a new, budding respect for Randall, who made it look so...effortless.

But the more he learned, the more he wanted to learn, and he showed up at Randall’s almost every night for a week, a combination of hooking up and signing language lessons that he was sure was much less professional than what Randall did at work all day, with the two of them sitting on the couch or on his bed, facing each other with a beer passed back and forth while Randall showed him gesture after gesture. The beginning had been simple, he’d mastered the alphabet after his first class and then simple, everyday nouns. But once Randall started trying to teach him fully, complex sentences… well, he was starting to wonder if this wasn’t a waste of time. Or at least unnecessary torture.

“Bloody hell, give me a second,” Ripper said, lowering his hands to his lap and shaking his head when Randall held up another flashcard for him to sign out. His fingers were cramping and his arms were sore from holding his hands up for so long. How the fuck did Randall do this?

The boy in question lowered the flashcard, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ripper said, narrowing his eyes. “We’ve been doing this for hours.”

Randall set down the flashcard, signing at him.

**_I’ve been doing this for years._ **

“Fair point,” Ripper muttered. “Still.”

Randall shrugged, then, splaying his hands out and giving Ripper a faux-innocent look. Ripper rolled his eyes and picked up one of the flashcards, but only to toss it at him.

“I’m doing my best. I don’t get a lot of practice outside of being ‘round you, though.” He said, slumping back into the corner of the couch. He opened his arms, holding them out and silently beckoning Randall to move closer.

He did, settling against Ripper who absently kissed the side of his head… and then reached down to slide his hand under Randall’s shirt and offset the moment of tender affection. He’s around Randall so often that he keeps forgetting to keep himself guarded against shite like that. Randall undoes him, and he does it well. It’s unnerving when he stops to think about, but then he rarely does.

Randall lifted his hands. Signing. Twice, because Ripper only gets the first half, the first time.

**_We should go out, then. You can practice with real people._ **

Ripper tensed.

“I don’t really do dates, Randall.” He said, his hands stilling underneath Randall’s shirt.

Randall stilled too, but his expression only grew more determined.

**_It’s not a date. It’s work._ **

Ripper tilted his head back, trying to hide his grin. He was pretty bloody adorable when he was being stubborn.

“No dates.”

Randall narrowed his eyes but just held up another flashcard.


	10. Saying Nothing Sometimes Says The Most

“Really earning that reputation of a slacker, aren’t you?” Philip called from where he was squeezed in between Deirdre and the side of the booth, lifting his hand to wave at Ripper the second that he walked through the door. “Tsk, tsk.” 

Ripper returns the wave with a salute of his own, flipping him the bird, and smoothing back his rain-soaked hair from his face before he crosses over to where they’re sitting and squeezes himself in beside Ethan and Thomas. 

“Bloody lucky I showed up at all,” Ripper griped, stealing a chip from the middle. They ordered without him, again. “It’s disgusting outside and I had to walk further than I usually -” 

“Another late-night rendezvous with your mysterious lover?” Ethan asked, barely concealing his sulk. It’s been his new fixation. Still irritated that Dee got to meet Randall when no one else has. Or ever will, as far as Ripper’s concerned. “I agree with Philip, now. Tsk, tsk!” 

“Shut up,” Ripper said, slamming his shoulder into Ethan’s with a little more force than necessary. 

“Seriously, shut up.” Deirdre agrees, flashing Ethan a smug smile, silently taunting him with the fact that he’s the only one who knows what Randall is like and Ripper has half a mind to knock their heads together if it means shutting them up. “We’re not here to talk about Ripper’s love life. We’re here to talk about mine.” 

Everyone groaned… and it was mostly good-natured, with just the faintest note of being fucking sick of talking about this wedding. Even Philip looked like he was considering making a run for it and maybe that's why Dee had him sandwiched in against the wall. 

“You guys are the worst,” Dee said and her face screwed up with annoyance. “We already figured out all the hard shit. I’m not asking you about napkins again, alright? This is easy, I promise. I just want to know who you’re bringing to the wedding… so I can have veto power if you’re choosing annoying people.” 

Her gaze lingered on Ripper and Ethan since it went without saying that Thomas would probably be bringing his wife. Ripper slumped down in his seat and started rifling through his pockets for a cigarette before remembering that he couldn’t smoke, here, and grabbing another chip instead to occupy his hands.

“I’m not bringing anyone,” Ethan said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms over his chest. “The whole point of someone else’s wedding is to hook up with someone desperate and lonely enough to lower their standards for me.” 

“Well, if Ripper brings a date, that kinda ruins all of your plans doesn’t?” 

Thomas and Dee laughed in spite of themselves, while both Ethan and Ripper lunged across the table, at the same time, making to throttle Phil as he pressed himself up against the wall and shrieked. 

“Stop it! Stop it, you lot, you’re so embarrassing… sit down!” 

Dee shoved them back and they went, reluctantly. And she turned her gaze to Ripper, who felt put on the spot even in the seconds before she actually asked the question. 

“Are you going to bring…?” 

“Why would I?” Ripper asked, tersely, before she could get his name out. “We’re not fucking dating. He’s not…” 

Except, it feels wrong to berate him and swear him off as a casual affair when he’s been spending so much time with him, lately. Even more than he had been, before, between sign language lessons and middle-of-the-day hookups. In fact, if he’s not at work or in this booth with his mates, then he’s over at Randall’s. But that doesn’t mean… 

He’s good to hang around. He’s a good friend, a good lay, but that’s all he is. He’s not looking for more. 

“I’m just saying…” Dee says, slowly, coaxing now like she’s trying to convince a wild animal to approach her. “If you wanted him to come, I wouldn’t mind. And I’d need to know for the seating placement, anyway.” 

“Why are you doing all of this fancy shite?” Ripper asked, crossly, irritated with the way that everyone is staring at him, now. “Seating placement, napkins, what the fuck else… not really who you are, is it?” 

“Not right now, no,” Dee says, quietly. “But I might be someone, someday, who looks at her kids and can tell them stories about my really nice wedding, instead of having to wait until they’re my age, now, to tell them about the time that Uncle Ripper got soused and tried to stick his dick in the punch bowl or something.” 

Right. Planning ahead to their blessed, polished futures. It irritates him. The whole thing irritates him. He shouldn’t have agreed to this. He -

“It’s not like that with us,” Ripper said, finally. “He’s not coming. We don’t do dates.” 

* * *

“We don’t do dates,” Ripper says, loudly, even though he knows that Randall can hear just fine. And his efforts are rewarded with a rude hand gesture that Ripper’d recently been taught, so he knows exactly what he’s being told to do and that earns Randall a scowl. “Don’t get like that. I never promised anything.” 

Between Dee’s not-so-subtle  _ begging  _ that Ripper brings Randall and Randall’s not-so-subtle  _ insisting _ that they go out to eat, Ripper thinks that he’s starting to lose his mind. Is he the only one here who remembers that this isn’t supposed to be something serious? That they’re just hooking up and maybe having tea after depending on the time, but certainly never getting dressed up and going out and sitting in public...

“Look, why don’t we just order in?” He asks, again.

**_I’m tired of ordering in._ **

“You don’t have to when I’m not here. You could be going out with your sister or something. Or with friends. You’ve got friends, right? You know what they are?” 

The words come out harsher than he means them too. Randall looks over at him and his expression falters. Ripper stands there, feeling for all the world both entitled to act like an asshole about this because he never  _ did  _ promise and feeling like he should start groveling, because Randall’s not really the one he’s pissed off at. He starts closer to him, crossing the space between them in Randall’s living room, and sits down on the couch next to him. 

“I’m sorry. That was harsh,” he says. Randall doesn’t look at him, now. “Hey. I didn’t mean it. I just… I’m stressed out, is all.” 

**_I’m sorry for pushing._ ** Randall signed at him, his eyes still downcast.  **_I know it’s hard being out with me in public. I won’t ask, again. Promise._ **

Ripper starts to fall back with relief, glad that Randall suddenly seems to get why Ripper wouldn’t want to go out on a date… but he still looks so sad that he gets the feeling that maybe they’re not on the same page, after all. 

“...Lookit me, mate,” He beckons, reaching out to touch him. But Randall flinches. “It’s not that I don’t want to, you know? It’s just… difficult. Reminds me so much that I’m a bloody… that I haven’t got a mark of my own.” 

Randall does finally look up at him, then, and he looks surprised. 

**_It’s not because I can’t… talk to you?_ **

“Of course not!” Ripper says, shaking his head in earnest. He doesn’t know when he became the type to try and make someone feel better, but here he is. “I just don’t do dates.” 

Randall nods, then, seeming to be backing down. And while Ripper should feel some kind of accomplishment about it, he doesn’t. Not really. Winning arguments with Randall doesn’t often feel like winning, especially when Randall’s just fighting to go out and be seen with him and Ripper’s roaring against the concept. 

And he thinks back to Deirdre’s question, asking if he was going to be bringing Randall. Looking at him with significance even after he’d said no. And maybe he’s not ready to go on a… date, per se, but what’s the wedding but a chance for Randall to meet his friends? They’ve all been vying for it. 

“Ah… listen,” Ripper started to say, forming the words before the instinctive shut-down panic could change his mind from offering. “D’you… maybe want to meet my friends?” 

Randall looks up, his eyes widening to the size of plates. It’s somehow both amusing and irritating. 

**_Are you serious? I thought you just said..._ **

“It’s not a date,” Ripper says loudly, too loudly. “They’ve just been interested in meeting you… and ah, Dee and Phil are getting married. They’re a couple of my friends and all of my other mates will be there, too, so you could meet them all in one go if you came with me. As a friend. Not a date.” 

The qualifier doesn’t seem to put Randall off. If anything, he’s practically glowing with excitement. And Ripper feels… proud that he made him brighten like that. Diffused the situation without needing to frantically text Dee and ask her how to navigate the terrain. 

**_You’re lucky that I do know what a friend is, or this might’ve been harder to arrange._ **

Okay, ouch. Ripper ducked his head in acknowledgment that he deserved that. But Randall moved closer, snuggling into his side, fitting in the space like he was made to be there and Ripper’s heart swelled at the silent acknowledgment that he was forgiven. 

And… maybe having Randall at the wedding wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not a date, it’s just an attempt to get Dee off of his case and let everyone see him, so they’d drop the fucking topic. If they all got to meet Randall, chat for a few hours before Ripper predictably bailed too early, then there’d be no more guilt-tripping, hint-dropping, or outright fighting about it.  He’s solving many problems with one swoop. Two birds, meet one stone. 

Randall stretched up, tilting his face toward Ripper’s, inviting him to kiss him. And Ripper grinned before he moved in closer. It’d been a long, long time since he felt this right about anything. It’s nice to feel on top of the world, again. 


	11. When Silence Is A Lie

“YES!!!!” 

“Jesus fuck!” Ripper complains, loudly, yanking the phone back away from his head and staring at it with derision for as long as Deirdre sustained her note of enthusiasm, and then a few seconds after just to be sure that she was actually done and not just taking a breath to start all over again. “Can you be bloody chill for three seconds? I’m not going to bring him if you’re going to be like this about it.” 

“Actually, you are.” Dee chirps back, and he can hear her grin. “Because you already told him that he’s your date to the wedding and even you couldn’t be so mean as to yank that back away from him. Besides, if I put him in the seating arrangement, he’s coming or you’re leaving in a body bag.” 

“Whatever.” 

The growl doesn’t sound genuine, not even to his own ears, and the little smile that curls the corner of his mouth can’t seem to be properly bitten back. He’d still felt… good when he woke up, the next morning, curled up in Randall’s bed. Good enough to make this phone call, first thing, while Randall was presumably in the loo or in the kitchen, somehow out of hearing range so he wouldn’t be nervous, embarrassed, or otherwise put off by Dee’s inability to take this news with grace. 

“He has a suit, right? And _you_ have a suit? You can’t just show up in jeans, I will -” 

“Murder me, yeah, we already had this conversation. Look, I just wanted to let you know that you should add him as my plus one, alright? We can talk more about it whenever I’m with you lot, again.” 

“You’re still at his place, aren’t you?” Deidre asks, shrewdly guessing the reason for his attempts to cut the conversation short. 

“Bye, Dee.”

He hangs up without another word, unsure how else to handle how predictable he had become to her, lately, and starts shuffling around Randall’s bedroom, nabbing his trousers off of the floor and yanking them on before he shuffles out of the room, for the sake of common decency, and starts down the hall toward the kitchen. 

He opens his mouth, about to shout for him, already anticipating the sound of eager footsteps and the way that Randall throws himself at him for a hug, like he does every time that he gets up before Ripper… but then he freezes, the words halted before he could get them out because someone else is talking. 

He moves close as he can get to the kitchen without actually stepping into view, and leans against the wall, listening carefully. It must be late in the morning… but Randall’s never had company over when he was around and the idea of them being seen together, so bleedin’ cheerfully domestic, leaves an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“I just don’t get it! What could possibly be stopping you from being with him?” 

A woman’s voice, a voice that he thinks he recognizes as belonging to Alice, though it’s been a while since his last run-in with Randall’s sister, wherein she lost her bloody marbles over him running into Randall. And, for a wild second, he thinks that they’re talking about him; that Randall’s complaining about Ripper’s no-date policy or something like that, but then she keeps talking, apparently responding to something that Randall signed at her. 

“Okay, I get being scared. I really do. But you know that he’s your soulmate. He said it, right? And you know that you’re his, so I don’t understand why you’re still fucking around like this.” 

Oh. 

Ripper suddenly feels chilled, like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over him, soaking through his clothes and his very skin until his very blood is cold. Randall’s met his soulmate? When? Who? He tries to think back, to anyone that Randall mentioned meeting -- any differences in the way that he acted, but there’s nothing. No changes, no unfamiliar names, no tension hanging in the air. 

“Okay… look, Randy… I know you’re scared. It’s a scary thing. But it’s also a necessary thing because this? This is no way to live. Why would you want to live in an eternal one night stand when you could have something real and substantial? This isn’t healthy. I just want you to do what’s best for you. And, honestly? For him, too. Because that guy in there deserves to know the truth and keeping this from him is only going to end badly. You’re already going to be in deep shit for hiding it for this long.” 

And that’s more than Ripper needs to hear. He’s barely aware that he’s already moving, turning back around and heading back for Randall’s bedroom. He flings the door open and it hits the wall with a bang, Alice’s words spinning in his mind, beating around in his head like an angry wasp in a glass jar. Stinging him over and over again while he grabs up his shirt and yanks it on, over his head, backward. 

Randall has a soulmate. He’s had one, for a while, if Alice is to be believed. He’s been keeping this secret from Ripper, and possibly from the other person too, fucking playing both of them. He never thought him the type… never believed that he was capable of any kind of malice, but here he is. Feeling quite malice’d. He grabs up his phone and shoves it into his pocket. If it wasn’t for the fact that his jacket was still hanging up near Randall’s front door, he might’ve climbed out the window. Cowardly? Sure. But it’s a sight better than having to walk past the two of them, having their quaint little discussion about Randall being just as awful as every other fucking person Ripper’s ever met. 

Better than having to see him, to look into those big, brown eyes and know that he’s been telling him lies for who knows how long. Better to never look at him again. 

He turns around, away from the window, trying to steel himself with a mental game plan, mapping out the fastest out he can make, and he’s startled to find that Randall’s standing in the doorway, looking first at the hole that Ripper had accidentally made when he slammed the door into it and then at Ripper, concern in his eyes. 

 **_Are you okay?_ ** Randall signs at him, his face betraying nothing but worry. No sign that he suspects that Ripper had overhead him and his sister’s conversation. Nothing that gives away what a dirty, rotten, fucking liar he is and Ripper laughs coolly. He really is a good actor, isn’t he? 

“Does it fucking matter?” He asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s either ready to fight or run. 

Randall looks just the picture of confusion, his gaze darting around like he’ll be able to find the reason that Ripper’s upset in the room or written on the wall. And Ripper laughs, again, taking a step closer to him. 

“You, mate… are a fan-fucking-tastic actor. Really, you missed your calling as a bloke in one of those silent films. But, ah, the show’s over, the curtain’s down, take a bloody bow.” 

**_Ripper, what are you talking about?_ **

He moves closer to, hesitantly reaching out, but Ripper’s withering glare and the way that he flinched back from Randall’s touch seemed to be enough to put him off and he yanked his hand back away from the open air as if burned, his expression crumpling with uncertainty. And if Ripper didn’t know any better, if he hadn’t heard… he would believe it. He’d tug him close and kiss him until he smiled, again, because it _hurts_ to see him look like this. 

And that’s the worst part, innit? Despite how hard he tried not to, despite everything that he did to avoid it, he fell in love with Randall. And all he has to show for it is exactly what he knew he would get. Nothing. 

“Look, mate, I heard your sister out there. I know all about it, alright? You and your fucking lies.” 

Understanding dawns in Randall’s expression, horror, and acknowledgment making the picture of guilt on his face. And his hands start moving, frantically, signing so fast that Ripper almost can’t keep up with it. 

**_I’m sorry. I know I should have told you, I was just scared. I didn’t know what you were going to say and I didn’t want you to be disappointed… I didn’t want you to leave._ **

“Disappointed?” Ripper asks, picking the word out and repeating it. It cuts into his mouth like it has jagged edges and he can taste the phantom blood. “Why would I be disappointed? I’m elated. Over the bloody moon. Far as I can tell? You’ve done me a favour. Saved me the trouble of having to tell you how sick I am of you.” 

The lie burns the back of his throat, but it doesn’t hurt as much as looking at him does. As much as imagining him and his mystery soulmate does. As much as it does to know that Randall had been playing him this whole time, using him for whatever mystery purpose. Maybe just because he could, because he knew that Ripper had no one else and it was _easy_ to have him as a side piece. Maybe his soul mate is just underperforming in some way and that’s why he wanted to keep him around. Well, fuck both of them. He hopes every fuck Randall has is deeply unsatisfying.

“And, let’s be honest. I would have left anyway. That’s what I do. I never wanted anything serious, remember? I never wanted… this. All you did was give me the last reason to go. Ta, Randall.” 

He moves forward, shoving past him and marching down the hall, refusing to spare a passing glance at either him or the girl who’s still standing in the kitchen, stomping past her and out the door, grabbing his jacket as he goes and then slamming the door, hard, behind him. 

  
Fuck both of them. He doesn’t need this. He never did. And the blank space on his arm seems to _burn_ as a lasting reminder of that.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t have a game plan or even a vague outline of what he’s doing when he ends up at Thomas’ place. He wasn’t even thinking about it, the gears in his head were turning about Randall, about everything they’ve shared and everything he felt and about how all of it was nothing but a lie and suddenly, he’s there, standing on Thomas’ porch with his hand outstretched to knock on the door. 

He hesitates, a second, and then bangs his fist against it. Once, twice, then a third… and Thomas pulls the door open before he can hit it again, nearly winding up being clocked in the face. 

“Oi!” He snaps, flinching back away from Ripper. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me! What are you doing here?” 

Ripper blinks. What is he doing here? That’s a great question. He can’t think of an answer and his lack of response, or maybe his expression, seems to be enough to clue Thomas in on the fact that something isn’t right, because he steps aside and gestures for Ripper to step into his flat. 

“Come on,” He said, patting him on the shoulder when he moves, robotically. “Emily’s out for the afternoon. I’ll get you a beer.” 

“Sounds great, thanks.” 

Ripper’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears, stressed like he’d been screaming, and he lumbers into Thomas’ sitting room, trying to ignore how very… unlike Tom that it was. Little touches that Emily must have introduced, all reminding him that his friend had a wife, that he was one of the problems, but who else was he supposed to turn to? 

He sits on the couch, next to a cream coloured throw pillow and absently runs his fingers through his hair as Thomas disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes and then reappears with two bottles of beer, in hand, handing one of them over.

“Cheers, mate.” 

Thomas sat in the armchair and took a gulp of his own drink, watching Ripper until he remembered to follow suit. The taste doesn’t make him feel better but the familiarity of the action does; loosens a few of his tense limbs. 

“So,” Thomas said, after a minute of terse silence. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

“Randall’s met his soulmate.” 

“Ah.” Thomas’ confusion turned immediately to understanding, to regret. “I’m… fuck, that’s the worst.” 

“Nah,” Ripper said, shaking his head and his hands so violently that he nearly spills his drink all over the pretty, cream pillow and has to set it aside. “The worst is that he’s known whoever it is for a while, now, and never got around to telling me. Probably never would have. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t overheard a conversation between his sister and him, talking about how dumb he’s being for shagging me when he has a perfectly good soul mate waiting.” 

“...Fuck.” 

“Fuck,” Ripper agrees, nodding once. “That pretty much covers it.” 

“What did you do?” 

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? Called him on it, didn’t I? Told him what a fucking bastard he is and how it’s lucky that he gave me the out, cause I was dying for one anyway.” 

“Were you?” 

“Was I what?” 

“Dying for one?” 

Ripper’s upper lip curled back over his teeth at the question and the feelings it raised. No, was the truthful answer. No, he didn’t want an out. He wanted a reason to stay. It’s all he’d been vying for, the entire time, every second that he was with him. Everything was just another reason for him to stay with Randall and be near him. 

“Of course I was,” Ripper says, out loud, anyway. “You know I’m no good at that long-term shite. Doesn’t make him any less of a bastard for lying to me, does it? And his poor soulmate. He’s either thick in the head for having not noticed that Randall’s been fucking someone else or he’s hoping for fairer weather in the future. Either way, I got out of there. I’ve got my pride, you know.” 

It’s all so easy to say, when the anger is fresh in his mind. So easy to condemn Randall and disavow whatever feelings he had for him. But Thomas doesn't look as convinced as Ripper feels. He doesn't even look as convinced as Ripper  _wants_ to feel. He just looks... sad, when he takes another swig of his beer and shakes his head, the liquid sloshing in his cheeks before he swallows it down. 

"You know, it's okay to not be okay. Did you come all this way to vent or do you need...?" 

He doesn't finish his sentence, which is probably for the best. Just leaves the unspoken words hanging there, where Ripper can ignore them. 

"I don't need anything. Just wanted to start telling people, is all. You bastards hate gossip and if you ever found out through anyone but me, I didn't think any of you would forgive me." Ripper lied. It's getting easier, pitching nonsense. Putting something between himself and the pain. 

“Mate, I'm just saying. You were different when you were talking about him, over the moon, practically living together with all the time you spent at his. Of course, this upsets you... maybe you should talk to him. After you've cooled down, some? I know I'm not exactly a relationship expert, but maybe that would help you find some closure. You could move on and -" 

"And what?" Ripper asks, his eyes flashing. "Start the next romp? I'm just... I'm fucking done. With all of it, mate. Not just him. I'm tired of pretending to be someone I'm not." 

Thomas meets his gaze with heavy skepticism and it takes all of Ripper's strength not to throw his bottle of beer at him. If he never sees or hears from Randall Evans again, it'll be too soon and that's that. And maybe it's Thomas' ability not to pry that Ripper really wanted, when he started this way because the conversation falls to nothing and Thomas turns on the telly without a word, filling the silence with an old movie that neither one of them really watch. 

 

* * *

 

Ripper has fifty consecutive texts from Randall by the time that he looks at his phone, again. He doesn't read any of them, just deletes the conversation, the entire history of the two of them together, every picture and every word, and then blocks the number and deletes the contact that Randall had made for himself. Erased like it never happened. 

And if he can do the same to the thoughts rattling around in his brain when he heads home, then he'll be set.


	12. The Truth Hurts But Silence Kills

Ripper doesn’t think about him. 

He moves on, without a second thought, the same man that he’s always been. He goes to work early and comes home late, spending time with his mates in any available second in-between, offering his opinion on whatever wedding planning that Dee’s fussing over and ignoring any and all sympathetic glances that are sent in his direction. He leaves his telly on, day and night, to have something to distract from the silence in his flat and he even washes his sheets three times in one day just to be sure that he won’t get so much as a whiff of Randall’s cologne clinging to his pillowcase. And he doesn’t think about him. He really, really doesn’t -- he never imagines a world where he didn’t find out that Randall had been playing him this whole time, never pictures that sweet ignorance or if it’d be so bad to spend his life with him, in spite of whoever his bloody soul mate was. 

A week passes and he lets the drone of daily life numb him to the thoughts that he definitely isn’t having. He eats, sleeps, and deals with life the same way that he used to. And if life never felt so hollow before; so dismal and grey with few things that genuinely sparked his interest, then he doesn’t mention it and neither does anyone else. Even Ethan, whose penchant for needling him past the point of no return, and then a step even farther than that, doesn’t poke, prod, or pry at the subject. 

That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t try to cheer Ripper up past it. They all do, offering nights out or movie nights in, bouncing Ripper around from flat to flat until he feels like a child with four parents who all share custody over him and, by the eighth day, he puts his foot down and firmly tells them all to fuck off for a bit, waving them off. He doesn’t need their pity, no matter what they think, no matter what form it was in, and whether they actually address what his problem was or not.

He spends day nine completely alone. Twenty four hours of mandatory silence and not thinking about Randall, or about his concerned friends, or anything at all, really, sleeping most of the day away. 

And on day ten, he wakes up to someone pounding on his front door. 

***

The noise startles him awake, and he sits upright with his hands instinctively curled into fists and raised defensively in an age-old reflex before his brain catches up with reality. He reaches for his phone where it’s charging on the nightstand and glances at the time. Just before ten. Bloody fucking…

He tosses the blankets off of himself and shuffles out of his bedroom, into the main part of his flat, stomping over to his door and yanked it open, fully intending to swing at whoever came to pester him on his day off… but he freezes when he sees who it is. 

“...Alice?” He asks, hardly daring to believe his own eyes. 

“Hey, asshole. Mind if I come in? Thanks.” 

She breezes past him, somehow both terribly polite and terribly pissed off and Ripper can’t do much but stand in the doorway, staring at the spot that she had been standing at. It takes him a second to turn, staring at the frazzled, annoyed, and concerned-looking girl that had just barged into his flat with a feeling that landed somewhere between completely annoyed and completely confused. He shuts the door hard, behind her, just in case anyone else is lurking and looking for an opportunity to come in too. 

“Er, can I help you?” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Alice asked, apparently not interested in or anticipating any offers of tea or polite small talk for this conversation. She stares at him like she’s actually expecting an answer to that question and Ripper leans back against his front door and lets out a bizarre, exasperated laugh. 

“You just came barging into my fucking house with your knickers in a twist and you want to know what’s wrong with me?” 

“Well, if you don’t want people showing up here, make yourself easier to get in contact with.” Alice snaps at him. 

And, even though Ripper doesn’t want to, he can’t help but notice that she looks a lot like Randall when she’s upset. Her wide, dark eyes well up with angry tears the way that his do and the corners of her mouth twitch downward in the same way that Randall’s do. The only difference is that he can hear the anger in her voice, whereas he can only watch it from Randall in the way that his signing speeds up. 

He doesn’t want to be thinking about this. Doesn’t want to be thinking about  _ him _ . He wants her out of his flat and he wants to be back in bed, with the sheets pulled up over his head and blocking out this warped version of reality that entered the second that he took an interest in Randall. 

“You didn’t stop to think that maybe I don’t want to be contacted? Maybe that’s why it’s so bloody difficult. What are you doing here, anyway? If this is about Randall -- look, I already ended things with him, yeah? It’s over.” 

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m fucking here. How could you? I mean, okay, I can understand being upset. I told him that you would be and I think that he should have to deal with that consequence like a grown up. But… I don’t get how you can just walk away from him. Because, yeah, it was shitty that he didn’t tell you but, god, I’m starting to think maybe he was right not to because this was exactly what he thought you might do. And here you are, proving him right! So, what is it? He was good enough for you fuck around with, but the idea of being with him forever is so deeply disturbing? Well, fuck you! If that’s what you think, then you really never deserved him! He is in pieces, at home, completely fucking beside himself. He won’t leave the house, he won’t talk to me, he’s taking all this time off of work… and you don’t even care! How can you not care! How could you have spent that much time with him and not love him?” 

Her glare softens and she falters, but Ripper really wishes that she hadn’t. He wishes she had kept that stony expression on her face the entire time, because she also looks a lot like Randall when he’s upset and it’s hard enough seeing the ghost of that expression on her face, let alone imagining the scene that she’s painting with her increasingly manic and not very well rehearsed speech that leaves him very, very confused...and very pissed off because of the confusion.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ripper asks, tonelessly, starting to shuffle away from her and to his kitchen, aching for a cup of coffee or maybe a beer. Anything that’ll make this make sense or bother him less. “Look, I don’t know what he told you, but I heard you two. And you, of all people, should be pleased that I took off, yeah? Weren’t you the one telling him to quit fucking around with me and settle down with his soul mate like a good lad? Well, I gave him a push in that direction and you’re welcome. Now, fuck off out of my place.” 

“What the fuck are  _ you _ talking about?” 

Alice blinks at him, her rage and upset dissolving away into confusion. 

“He told me that you heard us talking and, okay, I’m sorry that’s how you found out, but… okay, wait, what? What do you mean, you gave him a push in that direction? You left! That’s not at all the direction that I was anticipating. You think I wanted you to leave my brother?” 

Ripper gapes at her. “What the fuck else was I supposed to do? What were you two thinking? That I’d be so bloody flattered that he wanted to keep me as a side piece? Christ, are you both loony? Think I’m so desperate for someone to want me that I’d be his fucking mistress? Let him pull me around on a leash until he got tired and wanted monogamy with whoever the fuck his soul mate is?” 

“Wait.” 

Alice throws up both of her hands, closing her eyes and seeming deep in thought for a minute. When she opened them again, she had the strangest expression on her face. Something contemplative, cunning, and almost pitying all at the same time. 

“...Who do you think Randall’s soulmate is?” 

Of all the questions he was anticipating from her, that didn’t even make the bottom of the list. 

“...How the fuck should I know?” 

He starts for his door, again, abandoning his search for coffee, beer, or whatever else to occupy his hands, and yanks it open, about to gesture for her to get the fuck out, when she starts laughing. 

She’s fucking _laughing_ at him? 

He rounds on her, again, ready to physically throw her out if she’s not going to leave on her own, but she’s shaking her head, still laughing, and it’s a bizarre sound coming from anyone who looks that alarmed. 

“You don’t know. You really don’t know? I thought… well, we both thought… but you just don’t know. Randall’s going to kill me, this time. Oh my god.” Alice shakes her head, and then brushes her hair out of her face, looking up at him. “You didn’t hear the whole conversation, did you?” 

“I didn’t need to. I heard you telling him to quit fucking around with me and to just settle down with his soulmate. What else did I need to hear?” 

“Who his soulmate is, maybe?” 

“Why the fuck would I care wh -” 

“Oh my god, because it’s YOU dumbass!” 

Ripper freezes. 

Time, itself, seems to stop. Everything seems to, even his heart for a second, and then when it picks back up again, he shakes his head and scoffs. 

“No,” He says, firmly. “I’m not.” 

“Okay, are you saying this because you’re an asshole or because you’re genuinely this thick in the head because I’m not really sure anymore?” 

“I’m saying this because I don’t have a fucking soulmate. And Randall knows that. So whatever you’re doing here, I’m not buying it.” 

He holds out his arm, then, gesturing to the blank space where words should be, where his unmarred skin sits as a silent, mocking tribute to the life that he was never meant to have and his jaw clenches, mouth set at a hard line. 

“See? I don’t have any blood words. Been like that my whole life -- and Randall fucking knows it. And if he didn’t tell you, that’s not my problem, but I’m not his fucking -” 

“Oh, so you are just really dumb,” Alice says, interrupting him, breezing past what he’d said like he hadn’t even said it, just nodding and looking so fucking pleased with herself and Ripper gestures to the door that he’s still holding open for some reason, silently indicating that she should fucking leave before he really loses his temper, but she ignores that too. “Jesus Christ, of course, you don’t have any words! Randall doesn’t talk!” 

Her words hang in the air between them for a long, painfully long, minute. And, for a wild moment, Ripper wonders if he really is fucking stupid or if this is some kind of long, painful prank in retaliation for him pissing off Randall. If he’s as conniving as Ripper had started to believe he was, then the latter option seemed possible. But… if he’s the man who Ripper fell in love with, then…

“No,” He says, shaking his head. Arguing for the sake of arguing, because believing means everything he’s ever thought about his life wasn’t… right, and that’s a lot to take in before noon. “No, I don’t have a soul mate. I’ve made my peace with that and I… I can’t be his.” 

Even as pissed off as he is at Randall, even with as much as he hates him right now, he can’t really picture a world where he, as jaded and as angry and as often drunk as he is, is meant for Randall. 

“You are his, though. That’s the bottom line, no matter how long it takes you to realize it. And no matter how long you need to process that fact, Randall’s already there, he knows that you’re his soulmate and he thinks that you don’t want him. And now that we’re on the same page, may I circle back to my earlier point of… you need to go and see him and make this right!” 

“Does he even want to see me?” Ripper asks, in spite of himself. His perception of the last week is askew; finally seeing it from how Randall sees it, if Alice is to be believed. He doesn’t know if he believes that he can be Randall’s soulmate, but if Randall believes it, then this whole thing… Ripper walking away, the things that he said… 

“He does,” Alice says, nodding once. “Of course he does. So, go get dressed and go make up with him or I will revert to my earlier plan of stalking you and hitting you with my car.” 

* * *

It takes Ripper ten minutes to get dressed, three minutes to kick Alice out of his house, and then another ten running, yes  _ running _ from his place to Randall’s, out of breath and in pain by the time that he’s in his lobby. He can’t speak so he just hits the button over and over again, harder and longer each time, until the door hums, signifying that he can open it. 

He bolts up the stairs and, as usual, Randall already has the door open by the time that he makes it up to him. He looks… disgruntled, his mussed like he’s been asleep but the dark circles under his eyes signify that he hasn’t been doing much of that, lately. He stares out at Ripper with surprise, at first, then hope… and then his expression crumples, completely, and Ripper  _ hates _ himself for the thirty seconds it takes him to move forward, takes his boy into his arms, and kiss the hell out of him. 

It’s… right. 

It feels right. So right, that he almost believes that Alice was right. 

And when he pulls back, his voice is rough and still a little winded. “I think we need to talk.” 


	13. To Sin By Silence

They sit on the couch. Opposite ends, despite the way that Ripper’s itching to be holding him, again. It’d be easy, too easy, to fall back into his familiar pattern of ignoring the emotional part of things and skipping right to the makeup sex… but Randall looks so frazzled, so agonized, and Ripper’s mind is in too much turmoil. Ignoring this probably wouldn’t work. 

So, he sits. And he stares straight ahead at nothing until he can arrange his thoughts into some kind of cohesive order. 

“...Why didn’t you tell me?” 

The question sounded more fondly exasperated in his head than it does out loud. Out loud, it sounds… defensive and angry. A little biting, too, underlying the years that he spent thinking that he was broken, somehow, undesirable in a society that was built on the concept of forever love. He curls his hands into fists at his sides, grappling for control over himself, but he can’t help the way that his eyes tighten when he looks back over at Randall, or how his mouth curves downward into a frown. He  _ told  _ Randall that he didn’t have any words. Had shown him -- and Randall, knowing what he knew, said nothing. How could he do that to him? 

Randall shrugs, helplessly.  **_I was scared. And it wasn’t exactly an ideal meeting. I barely got to look at you before Alice came out and dragged me away. And then when we kept running into each other, you just seemed so…_ **

He stops signing and his expression grows more anguished, pinched with anxiety, somehow both irritating Ripper and tugging on his heartstrings. He opens his mouth to snap at him, ask what the fuck he had seemed like… but, before he can get the words out, his common sense snaps in and realizes that this is probably exactly what he’d seemed like. Defensive closed off, and angry. He sighs, sharply, instead of snapping at him… and then has to smile, ruefully, because he has a point. 

“Yeah, alright, telling me right away might’ve been difficult. But, Christ, Randall. We were… I really liked you. I broke all of my bloody rules for you, to be with you, and the whole time I was so fucking sure that one day you were going to tell me that it was over, that you found your soul mate, and it was going to kill me to have to walk away from you. Why didn’t you tell me at all? There were chances. Times you could have.” 

**_I didn’t know if you’d believe me. You were so sure that you didn’t have one and I didn’t know if you wanted one. If you wanted me. I didn’t think my soulmate was going to like me. My words were so..._ **

He stops signing, again, suddenly and his hand twitches to his sleeve where it conceals his words. He’s never seen them, Ripper realizes. Randall’s always had them hidden, if not by a sleeve then by the electrical tape that he wears to hide it from the kids he works with. And probably from Ripper, too. Funny that he went that far, because Ripper doesn’t even remember what the first thing he ever said to Randall, was. Or if he would have realized their significance when he did. 

“What did I say to you?” 

Ripper starts to reach across space between them, touching his fingers to his sleeve. He hesitates, offering Randall room to move away if he doesn’t want him to. But Randall stays where he is and so Ripper pushes it back. Slowly. 

The letters are stark black against his skin, jagged and rough like Ripper’s voice. 

**What the bloody hell is wrong with you, fuckwit?**

Ripper stares at them maps every letter with his eyes, and his chest feels uncomfortably tight. He remembers, now. He’d turned to go back into the pub, that evening, to tell Phil that he was leaving and had slammed right into Randall who was trying to walk in at the same time. He remembers swearing at him and the way that Randall had looked back at him. Eyes wide and round with shock but his face bright and cheerful like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to call him a fuckwit. 

Apparently, he actually had been. 

And that… hurts. Unexpectedly. Thinking about him, about Randall, someone who’s already so soft and bright and hopeful living his entire life knowing that the first words that his soulmate was ever going to say to him were angry and harsh. Ripper stares at the words until they’re the only thing in his head, repeating over and over, and then he pulls back and shakes his head. He doesn't have to be told what that would mean to someone like Randall.

“Fuck.” He says, softly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Randall nods, a picture of misery.  **_I used to think that was what they - that was what you were going to say when you met me because I couldn’t talk to you. I thought you were going to hate me. I didn’t even realize that you wouldn’t have your own words because I couldn’t say anything. That’s why I was so curious when I realized that you didn’t have any. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed that you got a broken soulmate. I wanted to tell you but I didn’t think you’d want me like this. Not forever. You were so annoyed when I couldn’t just tell you things and I was trying so hard but I’m_ **

Ripper lunges across the couch and kisses him, again, interrupting his signing. It’s messy, all tongue and no finesse, but he can’t think of any other way to tell him, to  _ show  _ him that it’s not true. That he’s sorry that the first words he ever said to Randall were out of anger; anger that Randall would have to wear until the end of his life. 

And when he pulls back, his throat with thick with emotion and a little croaky. “There’s nothing that could make me not want you. Nothing."

Randall nods with understanding and Ripper knocks his forehead against his, lightly. 

“But you still should have told me. These last few months… I’ve just been…” 

Hopeless. As ever. But even more so, maybe, because the thought of losing Randall to some mysterious, unseen man whose words were imprinted on Randall’s skin, marring him, coming to steal him away… it was agony that he had refused to address, gnashing his teeth over and tying his insides in knots in the wee hours of the morning. How could anyone ever look at him and not want him? Ripper stares at him now, at how open and trusting his face is, and he can't picture a world, a life, or a path that could lead him to not want him forever.

Randall reaches out for him, this time, squeezing his hands in his own and nodding before he leans back to sign.  **_I should have told you. I’m sorry._ **

His expression is drawn, grief, anxiety, and hope all dancing in his dark eyes. So much left to be addressed… the hateful things that Ripper had said to him when he left, the first time, solidifying Randall’s thoughts that Ripper might not want him… the distrust and pain of Randall not telling him… it’s too much to fix in one afternoon. 

But it seems like they have much longer than that to fix things and Ripper smiles. A soft, genuine smile. It’ll be messy, a struggle to climb upward, but they’ll do it together. They’ll be together. And that… that’s what he’s wanted since he first brought him home. 

“...Soulmates, huh?” Ripper asks, testing the word out on his tongue for the first time. 

And in his mind’s eye, he can see it all falling away. All of the tension, the anger, the desperation. The years that he spent walking this earth, thinking that somehow and someway he was undeserving of love. Too broken and jaded for anyone to love. And, for the first time, instead of looking back at the pain where he’s already been. He sees something brighter. A future. 

Randall nods.  **_Soulmates._ **

He sits up and moves closer, less trepidation in his expression. More hope. 

**_Does this mean you’re not actually sick of me?_ **

Ripper’s going to build a time machine, go back in time, and fucking throttle himself for having said that. But he doesn’t have time to start sorting the mechanics of that out, internally, because Randall is staring at him, anxiously. 

“Well, not yet,” Ripper says because he’s never been the sappy sort. “If that’s what you’re trying for, though, I guess you’ll have to be around me more.” 

He waggles his eyebrows and Randall makes that breathy, laughing noise that he’s come to know and love. And then he slides across the couch, closing the space between them.

**_Should we start now?_ **

Ripper watches him sign and then grins, licking his lips lasciviously. 

“Yeah.” He said, reaching for the hem of Randall’s shirt and pulling it up and off of him. “Right now."


	14. Epilogue: In Silence Sealed

Their walk to the pub is painted in hues of orange and gold as the sun sets behind them. A light breeze rustles the leaves on the trees but otherwise, it’s mostly quiet, save for a few passing cars. London is settling down into a peaceful evening… and Ripper desperately wishes that he had a piece of that tranquility, because his heart is threatening to beat its way out of his chest and he looks down,  _ again _ , where his hand is holding Randall’s and wonders if this feeling ever goes away or fades with time or if he’ll always feel a jolt in his stomach, like the floor’s fallen out from under his feet, every time that he touches Randall, holds him, kisses him, or just  _ sees  _ him. He hopes so, this sentimentality is turning him to such a bloody sap. 

They stop walking, together, and Randall turns his head to look up at him. He can’t sign at Ripper when he’s being held like this, but he doesn’t need to. Ripper’s getting better and better at reading his expression. And he’s not sure why that is if it’s because they were destined for each other or just because Randall’s face is an open book where his emotions play out like a movie, but it doesn’t matter. Ripper can see and understand it no matter what the reason is. And, right now, Randall looks nervous. He chews on his bottom lip and nods his head in the direction of the pub and shrugs his shoulders helplessly. 

“We don’t have to do this, today,” Ripper promises, squeezing Randall’s hand before he, reluctantly, pulls back to give Randall space to respond to him. “They'd understand if you wanted to back out. In fact, I think they'd be more surprised if I did come here with you. I don’t really like sharing. I know you would never guess that based on my warm and sunny disposition, but...”

It’s a joke, meant to make him laugh or help Randall feel more at ease, at least, but Randall doesn’t quite laugh. He smiles, faintly, and then his face falls. 

**_What if they don’t like me?_ **

“Are you kidding? They’re going to love you. Or, at least, they’re going to love telling you all of the worst things they know about me. Bastards just love to embarrass me every chance they get. And, before they start, I just want to make it clear that these stories take place a long time before I knew you and that some of them are wildly out of context. Okay?” 

Randall does laugh, that time, making that breathy sound that Ripper has come to love so much and nodding. 

“Come on, then. Worst thing that happens is I have to commit murder because they said the wrong thing and then we have to be on the run. But then we get to see a lot more of England and possibly America than you ever anticipated.” 

He catches Randall by his hand and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. It’s a new gesture, not quite easy with familiarity yet, but it feels right. Having him close, being affectionate. It’s everything he deserves, at least, and Ripper’s reminded of that every time that he looks down and sees Randall’s words -  _ his  _ words - on his arm. He’s started wearing short-sleeved shirts since he told Ripper the truth and it always pushes Ripper to give him just a little more by way of comfort and affection. To take some of the harshness out. It’ll be a long, long time until he’s able to look at those words and feel no guilt, just satisfaction that it’s him that Randall belongs with, but until then… he’s willing to make do with making up for it. 

“Come on, then. Marching bravely forward.” 

They move together, hand in hand again, to the entrance to the pub. Ripper pushes open the door and holds it, letting Randall step through first. They blink at the softer lights and there’s only a few, precious seconds of quiet before the delighted roars and shouts of his name comes from their usual booth. 

“Oi! You two! Over here!” 

“Hey, Randall!!!” 

“Ripper, Christ, I thought you weren’t going to show!” 

Philip pounds his fists hard against the table and Ethan throws a chip in his face, leading to an impromptu tussle across the table while Dee waves, frantically, and Thomas waves a little less so. Emily smiles from her new and deserved place among them and Ripper looks back at Randall, gauging his reaction. 

He doesn’t look scared. Or like he’s regretting this decision. A little nervous, maybe, at the prospect of meeting so many people at once, but Ripper slings his arm across Randall’s shoulder and pulls him close to whisper in his ear. 

“Too late to run now, pet, they’ve spotted us. You ready?” 

Randall nods, once, and pushes closer to him. Practically melting into his side and Ripper tries not to look too pleased about it as they amble over. He shoves Ethan, forcing him to make room, and then sits down and pulls Randall with him. All of his mates go quiet, looking at the two of them with anticipation and Ripper takes a deep breath as he looks at all of them. This is his life, from now on. His family, his future… and it all belongs together, not divided into pieces of shared time in different places. 

“Alright, you lot. This is Randall. Try not to rough him up too much on the first time, yeah? Randall, this is… everyone.” 

Ethan stretches over, across Ripper’s lap, to get a closer look at him, faux whispering -

“Mate, you’re too cute for him. That’s all I’m going to say.” 

“Ethan!” 

Ripper swats at him and he shrieks, cowering in the corner, while Philip and Thomas try to, clumsily, sign their names at Randall, who signs back at them, slowly, with all the deliberation and careful gestures of a teacher, giving them time to work out what he’s saying. 

Ripper catches Dee’s gaze, across the table, and he gives her a rueful grin when she nods in approval and reaches out to squeeze Randall’s arm. 

“Welcome to the family, Randall.” She says. “This has been a  _ long _ time coming.”   
  
_ Yeah,  _ Ripper silently agrees, as he picks up a chip from the center of the table and bites into it before offering Randall one, too. _ It really has.  _


End file.
